Draco Malfoy and the Practice of Rationality
by taogaming
Summary: (Continuation of Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality by Less Wrong) Still reeling from Lucius' Death and Narcissa's rebirth, Draco struggles to find his place in a changing Hogwarts and learns a dark secret of his new room-mate: Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres.
1. Social Gatherings

_Author's Note 4/28/16-_ This fiction is divisive, with many people hating it. If you read for the destination and not the journey you will not like this. At all. This story started as a bunch of vignettes and grew into something more, but at its heart it remains a connected group of stories. There are large arcs, but they do not all resolve cleanly. - _Tao_

 **Draco Malfoy and the Practice of Rationality**

Draco looked across the table at his mother, _His Mother,_ and quietly sipped another spoon of Diricawl soup. Narcissa stared at her glass of wine, untouched in an ornate silver goblet engraved with three snakes poking their heads over the edge of the lip, as if drinking. The candles on the table burnt low, but had never (in all the years Draco had known) managed to finish that final inch of wax.

The chair at the head of the table sat empty.

"I'm sorry, my son. I don't know how to act. I remember you as a baby. And to find a decade gone? Lucius gone? Our house …. " Draco put down his spoon, his mind racing with lessons, but … lessons were not for family.

"Mother. I don't know, either." Draco pushed his chair back and the house elves immediately scurried in, heads down, and cleared the table. "I don't remember you." He saw her try to hide a pained look and grimaced "No, I mean, I have glimpses in my mind" _that Harry said are just me remembering a daydream, not a real memory_. He paused while the elves left, as noiselessly as they'd entered. "But, you … you were coo-ing at me. And I don't remember you being gone, your Death, I remember Father telling me the stories over and over. I was supposed to love you automatically, by being your child, and that has been taking away from us. But I do remember the coo-ing."

Narcissa smiled at that and finally picked up the glass of wine. "That could have been anyone. All the witches coo-ed at you, my beautiful boy." She drank.

Earlier, there had been the greeting, Draco's shock as Professor - no, Headmistress - McGonagall re-introduced him with his long dead mother. Her confusion as memory charms faded away, then more anguish at the lost years. There had been joy, but joy mixed with anger. McGonagall had quickly brought them back to Hogwarts, and then they'd taken the Floo network home.

"And now you are at Hogwarts...on your first great adventure. You must tell me everything, and quickly, because in three months I will lose you again." Narcissa saw Draco's control; there was no pained look. _Lucius could hide his emotions from everyone but me._ She looked around, reached into her robes (kept in her closet for years, unmoved except for a weekly cleaning) and drew out her wand.

" _Lumos_! _Lumos!_ That's better" she said, putting her wand away. The pictures on the walls let out a small exclamation. Lord Montavian Malfoy, Father's Grandfather, who'd purchased the first insurance contract sold by Gringotts days before a group of Griffyindors slew his prized Hungarian Horntail, awoke with a snort. Draco looked around. He'd grown up in Malfoy Manor and the dining hall had always been cloaked in shadows, never bright. Noon outside meant dusk in the dining hall. He couldn't see the heraldry at night. Father always told him he needed darkness to plan carefully. But now …. he had so many secrets he wanted, he needed to share. _And so does she_.

"Tell me about Father." Draco pulled his knees up to his chest and clutched them to him with his hands.

"After you were born, your father's wand glowed silver for a month, and he seemed to fly up and down the stairs."

Day turned to evening, and evening to night and morning with stories traded between mother and son, as they talked of her husband and his father and discovered the truth that was somewhere between the two.

* * *

June 26th

Draco opened the door and bowed low. "Madam Goyle. Madam Crabbe." He nodded at Gregory and Vincent, who stood slightly behind, and they nodded back. "Please, do come in." His mother's voice sang out from the dining room "Adrasteia! Tabitha! _It has been so long!_ " Draco backed away and swept his arm low and across, gesturing for his friend's mothers to enter.

"Vincent, you should take lessons in manners from Lord Malfoy," said Madam Crabbe, her voice not steady. "Draco … you are becoming more and more like Lucius ..." she bowed her head and rushed past him, robes swishing noisily. Her voice brightened "Narcissa! When I heard …. I daren't hope it was true …." Madam Goyle was slightly past him when she stopped, turned back to him and squatted _so that she's looking up to me, not down at me_ Draco thought automatically. "I am so sorry about your Father, Draco." He didn't try to stop the tears.

"We all lost someone, Madam Goyle, and I am the only one who gained." She hugged him quickly, wiped the single tear from his face, smiled, and then went inside. Draco paused, then stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

"Aren't we going inside?" Vincent asked.

Gregory leaned against the wall, shaking his head "Do you really want to?" He raised an eyebrow.

Draco gathered his robes carefully and sat down on the steps. "How are you two doing?" This had been the first time they'd been able to see each other, outside of funerals and wakes. Vincent shrugged, and sat down next to Draco.

"We're alone," said Vincent. "I mean, it's not like before school. You had friends and family. Now we've lost family and all of our friends are avoiding us, because we lost our fathers. When I went to Diagon Alley last week …. it's like we weren't there."

"It's hard" said Gregory. "I get sad, and then angry." He picked up some pebbles and started throwing them down the path. "I wake up and I feel normal for a second, happy, and then I remember and I'm angry at myself." Vincent took out his wand and started casting at each passing pebble, _Ma-ha-su_ , mostly missing but barely. Draco was impressed, given the size and speed, but just nodded. Gregory picked up another handful of rocks and continued "Some days I think I'm not mad enough. I'm just kind of drifting along. Should I be sadder? Happier?"

"I know," Draco replied as a sharp _Ping_ Sent a pebble veering off into the nearby trees. "Nice. I'm used to having a mask, like Father taught. But I can't tell if I'm wearing it enough, or too much." Laughter came from inside the house. After a moment, Gregory continued lazily throwing.

"Does it bother you?" Gregory asked. Draco gave him a look. "That they are laughing?"

Draco thought about it. "A bit. But it's like you said. You should be sadder, but sometimes you aren't. So I can't really get angry." He shrugged. _What had it been called? Right. The Fundamental Attribution Error._ "They're reuniting. It's happy. We can't be what the world expects to see all the time. Why expect our Mothers to be? They need a break as much as we do."

"Yes," said Vincent as his latest spell passed just behind the last rock. "We do." He sat down on the other side of Draco, crossed his left leg over his right. He scratched his neck with his wand before it disappeared back inside his robe. "Any plans for the rest of the summer?"

"I have to go through Father's papers." Gregory shot Vincent a surprised look. _Lord Malfoy_ _kept notes_? "Nothing like that. Formal contracts, business arrangements. Its tedious. And studying. I've got to be ready for Defence this year. I've been reading about Wars."

"Grindelwald, or older stuff?"

"Muggle wars, mainly."

Vincent had, by this point, laid down completely and was staring at the sky. A passing cloud, shaped like a sneering hippogriff, hinted of rainfall in the near future. "Why muggle wars? I mean, Dragon Army could probably defeat most muggle armies. And if not now, in a few years."

Draco nodded. _He'd been thinking that, too. As he read about Thermopylae, Jutland, The Tet Offensive, Bunker Hill, Iwo Jima._ "Why could we defeat them, Vince?" Gregory stopped in mid throw.

"Magic" they said together.

Draco shook his head. "I don't think so." He raised his hands in surrender. "Yes. But not _just_ that. If we fought a muggle army, they wouldn't know what we could do. We could apparate and disapparate. Adults could anyway. _We_ could confound them, stupefy them. We'd have broomsticks. It would be a rout." Draco got up and started pacing. "But it's not the magic that makes it the rout. Look at what happened in all of our battles. Each armies magic is roughly the same." Vincent started to say something and Draco waved a hand, "with the houses split up we all had mudbloods" _No point opening that can of worms just yet_ "and strong wizards and witches. We're better at Magic than Potter, even Granger is; but Potter won more often. Why?"

"Because nobody has any idea what he's going to do" muttered Gregory. Vincent nodded.

"Right!" said Draco. "Two muggle armies _know_ what they can do to each other. But if they face Wizards … they don't know! Every battle last year - _every single one_ \- was won or lost by surprise. Granger's army played dead in the first battle, Potter surprised them with that sunlight potion that decimated Sunshine Regiment, but we _out-surprised_ him then. We knew what was coming," Gregory looked at him sharply and Draco smiled. "Well, we knew enough. So, no surprise. Our gloves. That potion of liquid night during the broomstick fight. The suits of armor. _Everything_ in the lake with all those stupid plots... "

"Not all the battles, Boss" said Vincent. "Diggory's victory in the Great Hall?"

Draco considered it. "OK, that's the exception that proves the rule. And sometimes history works that way too. Sometimes you get generals who just plod along, and then the better army wins. You _can_ win by just being better and out preparing them. But it's safer to surprise them. Even V..." Draco's voice dropped. "Even You-Know-Who got tricked. Professor Quirrell was good, and maybe could have won if he was healthy. But something surprised Voldemort," Vincent flinched slightly, Draco pretended not to notice, "something got him. He went through our fathers, all of the Death Eaters without a scratch. Even Quirrell died. But something surprised him, and he lost too."

Draco kept pacing. _Once you say it out loud its obvious. But what could surprise him? Maybe Quirrell set a trap and his entire attack was a distraction …_ Draco frowned, then shook his head. He remembered a lesson from his father. He could even hear it in his Father's voice _Speculating when you do not have any information is a child's game, my son._

"Dumbledore?" said Vincent, not caring if Draco was annoyed. "He was crazy, but even You Know Who was scared of him." Draco started pacing again, unable to shake a feeling in his gut. _It was Potter. I don't know how, but.._.

 _Ludicrous_ said his inner Lucius. T _he boy is a mad genius, but that is too much. You underestimate Voldemort._

"Nah," said Gregory, "Dumbledore was dead. Probably the same time as Flamel. Draco's right. Quirrell gave some trap to Granger. She hit him with it once they both came back..."

 _Look at the actual results and see who benefits,_ Draco thought.

Lucius got quiet. _You may be right, my son. But we have no way to know._

Vincent shook his head. "The Professor was a Slytherin's Slytherin, sure. But he wouldn't do that."

"Sure he would, she was a General. Killing her was a personal insult" replied Gregory.

Draco sighed. "In ANY case," he said. "If I read Muggle History _that Potter's already studied_ , he'll have less to surprise me with this year. There are a ton of good ideas. Muggles may not know much, but they fought a lot of wars. And you notice patterns: How important it is to be able to communicate during a fight, to have good information, to have troops trained to work together. We learned all of that, even in a few battles, but if you start to look at hundreds of them you see lots of tricks. I don't want to have to discover everything ourselves. There's not enough time."

Draco paused for breath, "So even if Potter manages to, I don't know, Imperius the Giant Squid or something" _That's actually a good idea, and forgivable too, I think_ "we'll at least smash Sunshine Regiment."

Vincent and Gregory froze, all camaraderie gone, rigidly formal. Draco saw the shift from relaxed friends to minions. Anxious minions. Draco glanced back and forth between them.

"What?" he said, his voice steady. Just then the head elf, a good hand taller than all of the other elves in Malfoy Manor, appeared with a poof and bowed to Draco.

"Mistress says that Young Lord and guests should come in for dinner." The elf didn't stand up from his bow, but shot a glance at Draco as he stood, frozen.

"What?" Draco said louder, voice preternaturally steady, lest it crack.

"Mistress says..."

"Not you!" he snapped. The elf, still bowed, disappeared with the sound of wet lightning.

Gregory took a deep breath. "You haven't been following the _Prophet?_ " Draco shook his head. There had been too many funerals, and the aftermath of Voldemort's death and business papers and days and days lost where he hadn't gotten out of bed at all. Those were past, but he hadn't caught up and the Prophet could run itself for a while.

Vincent looked him in the eye. "Granger sacked Azkaban."

* * *

Dinner had been a slow, loud affair. As a child dinner parties bored Draco. Father had great plots, but Draco hadn't been involved, except in minor ways, plots he recognized now as disposable training devices. Still, Draco's education had been exhaustive from as soon as he could walk and talk and the more details he remembered and recited at breakfast, the better his chances for ice cream. At parties, Draco's boredom never dulled his eyesight. His attention. He'd mingle, chatting some but listening always. Once, when he was six, he'd discovered an elderly french witch in a closet with Olivander's assistant. That earned him ice cream for a week; although he hadn't understood _why_ until last October.

"Tabitha," said Mother, "Draco tells me that Gregory is the best flyer in the year." Dinner had been a decidedly simple affair, roast beast with plain gravy, steamed vegetables, wine (butterbeer for the boys), and bread.

Madam Goyle smiled broadly, but no teeth showed. Her hair, which had been done up in a tightly wrapped braid under her hat, now had one loose black hair hanging slightly out to the side. "Oh, yes, we'd heard. We were _quite_ sure he was going to make the Quidditch team..."

Madam Crabbe nodded "I don't agree with a lot of what passes for education these days, but those armies are much better than that silly game anyway, isn't that right boys?" They all quickly agreed. "Gregory's stories about the battles are quite exciting, fighting in Draco's army."

"Well," Narcissa replied quickly, "Draco had good help."

"Oh no, that Professor _mixed the houses up_ even made that mudblood girl a general," replied Madam Crabbe.

"Standards have fallen" sniffed Madam Goyle, and all the ladies nodded.

Draco listened to the conversation, getting considerably more confused, boredom forgotten. This conversation felt different. There was the game of names, of course, subtle shifts of politeness. But there was something more, something he'd never seen at Father's parties. _This is the strangest conversation I've ever seen_. The chit-chat continued, each woman pleading how difficult things had been for her, _or her son_ , and praising the other two families. Draco mulled it over, answering questions politely when asked, no different from Gregory or Vincent, in this situation. Just a boy at Mother's side.

He listened for several more minutes, after Tabitha implored Gregory to "tell how Draco outwitted the Boy-Who-Lived in that battle in the woods" when Draco put words to his feelings. _It's a dominance contest, but in reverse. They are all humbling themselves … as a sign of friendship._ He thought about it and it explained everything. Father _had_ said women play the Game differently. Draco relaxed. There would be times he'd have to fight, to maintain the position of House Malfoy.

But not today.

He listened to Gregory's story, surprised at how a story he knew, he'd lived, could sound so different. Gregory's point of view didn't minimize Draco's importance, but he'd seen such a different aspect of it, scouting while Draco cast spell after spell, that some of the turns surprised him. The bitterness of his personal defeat (not mentioned at all, of course) felt easy to swallow months later, especially when Draco considered that he'd been vanquished by the Girl-Who-Revived, by the Girl with a Phoenix. He found himself laughing while following the story, as Vincent and Gregory argued about who really stunned Hannah Abbott, if Dean Thomas had really ridden a centaur to outflank his second squadron or just stumbled on them in surprise and a cross fire of useless _Somnium_ spells. Draco relaxed and truly enjoyed the party, happy to be among friends for the first time in a month.

He'd deal with problems another day. Miss Granger wasn't his enemy. Not really. But she was certainly Draco's problem. Draco Malfoy could be content with _second_ place.

Desert (pie and vanilla ice cream) had been brought out when there was a knock at the door. Draco got up and answered it. (The other two started to get up, but he just shook his head slightly). As the door opened Draco saw the uniform first, the person wearing it second. He nodded, smiled and bowed, a small delay to remember the names the Auror had, and which name was correct. He went by Li at Hogwarts...

"Auror Li. To what do I owe the pleasure?" A formulaic greeting he'd heard any number of times. _Etiquette has many uses_ , Father said, _but filling awkward silences and stalling are the two most important._

"Lord Malfoy." The Auror bowed, slightly compared to the formality of his words, "I am sorry, but there have been _a bit too many_ instances of under-age magic detected here in the last hour."

Draco opened the door and beckoned Li in, "I apologize, sir. Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle and myself were showing off for our mothers." He made sure that his words carried. "With all of the troubles of the last month, it just slipped our minds. I'm sure you understand." Draco followed the Auror into the dining room where Li bowed, deeply this time.

"Madam Malfoy. Forgive the intrusion. Boys?" he held out his hand. Draco quickly took out his wand and handed it over. Vincent and Gregory got up slowly and complied as well. _Father bribed the Aurors to overlook this._ All of his words about how Malfoy Manor was not subject to this law had been true of course; but Draco had never thought about _why_ that had been true.

As Vincent placed the third wand in the Auror's hand, Li took out his own wand, pointed it a Vincent's.

" _Prior Incantato_ ," said Li. Draco's face fell into polite mask number one by the time the words were finished. Li looked at Vincent "I'm not familiar with that spell."

"Professor Quirrell taught it early in the year" said Gregory.

"For practicing aiming" said Vincent. The Auror nodded, and quickly cast again on the other two wands.

Mother saw it, the look on Auror Li's face when he examined Draco's wand. He paused. "I don't think I need to confiscate these. No harm in practicing, but …." he just placed the wands back on the table and bowed again. "My apologies for the intrusion, Lord Malfoy"

 _Everyone_ saw the look the Auror shot Draco when he walked by.

"Have a pleasant day, sir." Draco walked him back to the door, making sure he wasn't _quite_ out of earshot when he said "I am sure we can continue my father's arrangement where I practice under strict supervision, if you can recommend a tutor..."

By the time he returned to the table, a minute later, the conversation had started back up again. Draco told and listened to stories, but now he was considering several problems, the least of which was how to get around the restrictions on underage magic for the rest of the summer. He idly played with his ice cream which he no longer desired as he had before Hogwarts. Now he had real problems, real goals. Draco still liked ice cream, but associated it with childish pursuits, and he couldn't enjoy it at the moment.

* * *

June 30th

"Augusta" said Mother, as Madam Longbottom pushed past the startled waiter and sat down at the table. She snapped and pointed to the empty setting in front of her, and the waiter scurried to get fresh plates.

"Narcissa. Lord Malfoy. What _are_ you wearing?" Narcissa was wearing a simple black robe with purple trim. Purple was the new rage, although this robe happened to be nearly fifteen years old. Draco wore a bespoke suit, charcoal with green tie kept neatly in place with a silver snake clip.

"Good afternoon, Madam Longbottom" said Draco politely. "It is a muggle outfit. I have business in London after lunch." He'd bought the suit several weeks ago, the better to blend in. He'd learned this outfit would blend perfectly in their world …. when he turned twenty. After that disastrous outing he'd taken to wearing blue jeans and an atrocious orange jacket with hood and pullstrings, which looked terrible but was the correct fashion for children in that strange world. _Comfortable, though_. Mother liked the suit though, so he wore that until he was alone. And, although he'd never admit it, he liked the suit as well.

"Don't let me keep you, dears. I just wanted to say hello."

" _Augusta_." Mother looked around, but the restaurant was mostly empty and what few patrons were there were looking at the couple going into Mary's Room. "There is no need for false hospitality."

Madam Longbottom took off her hat, her hair a mess underneath. "I offer none. You know I loathed Lucius. Do you know he only ever said two true things to me his whole life apart from his name? But we widows must stick together to survive. _That_ bond I understand all too well." By now some settings had arrived and she poured herself a glass of tea. "And as for Lord Malfoy and I, why we have an even rarer bond."

"We do?" Draco blurted out.

"We got someone _back_. That almost never happens. Now with the Ministry having discovered Merlin's Chalice, I suppose it will happen more often."

The Daily Prophet had been ablaze for the last several weeks starting with the story of how Amelia Bones, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement had discovered Lord Voldemort's notes detailing various artifacts that could restore him to full power. This explained how You-Know-Who had been defeated so easily by a school girl, albeit "the most powerful witch her age any teacher could recall" according to Headmistress McGonagall. Lord Voldemort had returned to life, but had just started his quest to return to his full power. The article went on to discuss how Director Bones had carefully pieced together the notes with cryptic clues and hints left by Dumbledore. Put together those led her to the resting place of the Chalice. The story described how she and her Aurors had recovered it with minimal loss of limbs that could now, thanks to the Chalice, be fully healed and restored.

A few days later the Prophet reported that a middle-aged DMLE Bones had presented the discovery (but not the Chalice itself) to the Wizengamot. You could still tell it was her in the pictures, although she was less angular than her older self she gave no indication of softness. After the announcement the Cures had started a trickle but now hundreds of people had been saved at Hogwarts (technically the Peverell Hospital located adjacent to Hogwarts) by Merlin's Chalice which reversed aging and healed the sick.

 _And the insane, apparently_. Draco noticed that story confused him, but continued the conversation.

"Neville's parents are fine? I hadn't realized that the Chalice could cure ..." he stopped as Madam Longbottom nodded, blowing on her tea to cool it.

"We've lived through terrible days." said Narcissa, "I'm glad we can now live through days of wonder."

"Indeed" said Augusta. "Once all the _truly_ old people have gone through, I expect I'll have a go." She chuckled softly at something. "But I just sat down here, forgive me, to offer my condolences and to tell Lord Malfoy something." Draco waited patiently.

Seeing no response, Augusta continued "You know, last year during the … confusion, some parents and members of the Board of Governors stopped in at Hogwarts and witnessed one of David Monroe's battles. Fought by first years, no less." She said, between sips of tea.

"It was fascinating, Narcissa. If Draco is shy, you must press him to open up about those armies. And if you have told your mother, Draco, I'd love to hear about them. Someday. But in any case, Young General Malfoy earned quite a lot of praise from David Monroe."

Draco blinked. Professor Quirrell had praised him? Publicly?

"Oh, he had criticism too, but said Draco's mistakes were merely signs that he was still young."

"As he is," said Narcissa, "although not as young as I remember him." She smiled.

"It was during this battle that your Father said the second truthful thing. I thought you'd like to hear it. Your army won the battle, but Lucius took your … personal defeat ... badly. So he probably didn't ever say it to _you_."

"What did he tell you, Madam Longbottom?"

"Oh, he didn't tell me. He told _everyone_. He said," and here she put down her cup and stared at Draco, "'He will be the greatest Lord Malfoy that ever lived.'"

They all sat quietly.

"I know your anguish, Draco. I know your training was harsh; set to impossible standards, and now you've lost your Father." She started to get up, and reached for her coat. "But know that, even if he didn't show it, he loved you and was fiercely proud."

"Thank you Madam Longbottom. I know he loved me; but … I'd never heard him say it to anyone else." Augusta put her hat back on her head, secured it with a firm pat, then took her leave.

* * *

 _Author's note_ (5/5/15) – This update fixes a few typos. In particular I always that it was Diraclaw, not Diricawl. I thought about leaving the typo and introducing a new creature, but for now I fixed it.

Also, thanks to Redditors at r/hpmor, for nitpicking. r/hpmor, for all your HPMOR needs.

Additionally, Thanks to the guest who pointed out that Augusta misremembered the quote by Lucius Malfoy in Chapter 78. (The original says "has yet lived" instead of "ever lived.") I've decided to keep my (misremembered) wording because a) people's memories are not exact and b) it seems like the kind of detail that's easy to get wrong. Since, you know, I got it wrong


	2. Social Gatherings, Part 2

The door's knocker looked so menacing, so convincingly like a Krait poised to strike, that Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres unconsciously paused before grabbing it and pounding the door three times. He turned to the assembled adults.

"It won't be as bad as the Headmistress thinks," Harry said.

Petunia and Michael exchanged worried glances on the doorstep of Malfoy Manor. As Muggles, Harry had told them they wouldn't normally be able to see Malfoy Manor, much less approach it. But the formal invitation in their hands, elegantly lettered and addressed, tamed the wards. Professor McGonagall had offered to join them; Harry had declined. Michael thought the house looked like the Haunted Mansion - black structures stacked hodge-podge on top of each other with no right angles between walls, the only rectangle being the main door and the only squares being a few windows. Petunia, looking at it, just shuddered.

Michael Evans-Verres smiled nervously. His son had matured over the last year, but his social skills still trailed behind other children.

After a second, Hermione spoke up. "Maybe they didn't hear. It's a big house."

Beside her, Leo Granger harrumphed slightly.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," he said for the fourth time. Hermione kept her mouth shut and shifted her backpack nervously. _Your parents are allowed to worry because you died._ Things hadn't been awkward when she came back; her parents were too surprised and grateful. They'd gotten awkward later, after a few days. Then they'd noticed her teeth.

Harry reached for the knocker again as the door flew open. Everyone started to say hello, but only one person finished.

"Honored guests, come in! Come in!" said the small creature standing in front of them, dressed in what looked like a burlap sack. His large eyes beamed at the entourage; long ears flopped as he nodded enthusiastically.

Roberta recovered first. "We brought some wine...," she started to say but the creature's eyes, already cartoonish, grew wider and she lost her nerve.

"Brought wine! They dare ..." it hissed, then paused with a look of horror "Mustn't insult guests! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" The elf turned and pounded his face into the door frame with surprising force.

"What is that?" said Michael Evans-Verres, turning to the children. Hermione was trying to persuade the elf to stop in slightly frantic tones, when Harry answered.

"It's a house elf. We have them at Hogwarts, but I've never seen one act like this." He ignored a particularly sickening crunch as Dobby's head rebounded off the door frame. Harry heard Draco shouting "Dobby! Back to the kitchen!" and the elf disappeared with a _whampf_ right before his head impacted the doorway. There was a sound of bowls crashing, followed by one bowl ringing as it rolled slowly to a stop.

Draco rushed out, smiling. "I'm sorry. Please, come in." Draco bowed low.

"Mum, Dad" said Harry. "This is Draco Malfoy. Draco, my parents Michael Evans-Verres and Petunia Verres-Evans." Michael shook hands with the boy, who stood slightly taller than Harry, and examined him. Draco had slicked back blonde hair a few brushes shy of perfection. He wore simple black robes and a slightly off-center cape, clasped with a silver snake. There were a few specks of dust on his cape, but the boy radiated calmness and poise more than any child he'd ever met.

 _Except Hermione Granger,_ Michael thought. _Must be a magical thing._

"Are we early, Draco?" asked Petunia, shaking his hand. Michael glanced at his watch, 7:01pm.

"It's my fault" said Draco smoothly. "I didn't think to tell Harry about it. You're still on Hogwarts time, aren't you?"

"Isn't Hogwarts in the same time zone?" asked Roberta.

 _Muggles control zones of time?_ Draco thought to himself, horrified for a brief second before he realized it was just an expression.

"Trains" muttered Michael to Harry, who nodded.

Petunia looked at them and said "What do trains have to do with this?"

 _Trains_ , as Michael and Harry knew, led the impetus behind formalizing time. To be sure, ships had led the way, but travel by ship was measured in weeks, not days or hours. Before trains, every village and every town had its main clock with no coordination between towns required. Only with industrialization, with the need to precisely coordinate movement of items across vast distances, did people make agreements when noon (or a dinner party) should occur.

So it made sense that magicians, who had never industrialized, wouldn't have agreed on precise standards for time across multiple locations. No spells said "Start at 11:30," they all referred to noon, sunset, midnight, and other times with specific physical meanings. _Actually,_ thought Harry, _they probably do have agreements, but I've never had an exact appointment scheduled outside of Hogwarts._

"Draco, these are my parents the Doctors Leo and Roberta Granger. Mum, Dad, This is Draco Malfoy."

There was swishing of robes down the hallway as a young, smiling woman came forward. "Draco, do introduce me to your friends and their parents."

"Of course Mother." Introductions were made all around. Draco had warned Mother that there would be misunderstandings and to just assume any social blunder was made in ignorance instead of malice, so he didn't mention the gifts. But there were limits, so after handshakes were made, and Draco had accepted the various bottles of wine, deserts, and flowers and set them in the dining room table, he continued the conversation.

"We were just discussing, Mother, that Muggle time doesn't work _exactly_ like our time." Roberta Granger glanced around the room and let out a soft moan as she saw a grandfather clock at 6:50.

"Lily never mentioned anything like this" said Petunia.

"Oh yes, Draco said you are Lily's sister." Narcissa said, offering seats to everyone. "I must admit I don't see the resemblance. You are lovely, like she was, but in a different way…. Lily reminded me of spring, but you seem more like a northern summer." Draco slowly released his breath. Mother would be fine. Father had always said Mother possessed a natural social grace; but he'd been worried for the first few weeks. Narcissa's prior awkwardness had been the pain of discovering her baby grown and husband dead. Now Draco felt confident that Mother would ever-so-gently steer the conversation towards common ground. She'd already mentioned a mutual acquaintance with Harry's mother although Merlin knew how she'd find _anything_ in common with Hermione's parents.

As Dobby and the other elves brought out the food, Narcissa put the empty wine goblet down. "This is _surprisingly_ good wine, Roberta" _And there it is_ , thought Draco.

"Why, thank you. I don't have much experience, but the sommelier recommended it..."

"Do wizards use magic to make wine?" asked Harry. "I know we can't transfigure it, but is there anything in Herbology about helping grapes grow?"

"Why can't you Transfigure it?" whispered Leo quietly.

"All Herbology lessons dealt with magical plants, but that could just mean it isn't taught at schools." Narcissa said, reflecting on what she knew about Muggles. "It wouldn't be an appropriate subject for children, though."

"It will change back later _after you drink it_ , Dad" whispered Hermione.

"Well, then in that case," said Harry's father, "Muggle wine is probably, on average, about as good as Wizard wine. And since there are so many more Muggle wine makers..."

"Dad, wizards could enchant the soil and tightly control the environment, not even considering..."

Leo blanched "So even simple magic is dangerous?"

"Do many Muggles make wine?" asked Narcissa.

"I don't think that many do," said Roberta, "but Hermione says there just aren't that many wizards and witches."

"Harry, even if you assume that the average wizard wine is better, the sample space and standard deviation practically ensures that the best wines will be ours." said Michael.

"Dad," Hermione whispered, "Transfiguration the most complicated magic. Can we talk about this later?"

"It's true," said Draco, "the Muggle world is _surprising_. Muggles aren't like plays depict them." His London excursions confirmed that. _Did Harry set this up. Is he investigating mother's beliefs, to see if she's ... reformed?_ It would make sense. Mother _had_ married a prominent Death Eater, after all.

"Ours?" Harry raised an eyebrow. He'd practiced for a year before he could just raise one. "You sound like a football fan. It's not a competition." Petunia glared at the men in her family, to no avail.

"You can imagine why we worry, Hermione..." Leo said as everyone took their seats.

Michael, who had shown Harry literature on sports fan psychology, ignored the barb. "I agree. That's why I'm pointing out trade opportunities. Both worlds' standards of living could rise dramatically..."

"Of course I've thought of that, but we have to ease into it. Remember Dobby?"

"This is a lovely plate of food, Narcissa," said Petunia warily.

"Yes, Mother, the lamb chop looks delicious." Draco piped in cheerily as he cut a small piece off, trying to force all the conversations back to a single topic. Draco didn't particularly care for lamb, but he'd seen it on menus posted outside high end muggle restaurants, so he'd suggested it instead of the Dragon Tartare Father served. _All things considered, this is going well._

Wine, Time Zones, _amusing_ differences in etiquette, and other conversation topics flowed with the wine. Narcissa's offer to show Malfoy Manor was, of course, politely accepted and so the parents were gone when the house elves started removing the plates and cleaning up.

"Draco, can I ask Dobby some questions?" asked Hermione. A look of horror crossed Dobby's face but he continued picking up dishes, each one disappearing with a small poof as he grabbed it.

"Of course," said Draco. "Dobby," he said firmly. Dobby sighed and turned around.

"Dobby would be happy to answer," he said morosely. He stood waiting.

"Why did you hurt yourself, Dobby?" she asked.

"Dobby must be punished! For insulting guests!" Dobby looked confused.

"Who made that rule?"

"Dobby … Dobby doesn't know. It's always been that rule."

"Hermione, they are house elves" said Draco. "It's what they do. They enjoy it." Harry shot Draco a look. "Oh come on, they _do._ I've only ever heard Dobby complain about one thing."

"Dobby never complains, young master! Oooh, bad Dobby!" Dobby rushed towards a table leg. Draco snapped his fingers.

"Dobby, stop." Draco's voice was calm. "Tell them your complaint. It's fine."

Dobby, eyes downcast, shrank into himself, then flashed an apologetic look to Draco. "Dobby likes Young Master and Mistress. But Old Master, when Mistress was gone … Old Master ..." Dobby sputtered, looked longingly at the table leg, then lowered his voice to a hiss, "... forbade us ..." Dobby sobbed a few breaths, "from cleaning Mistresses Room!"

"It's ok, Dobby. Things are better. The room is nice and clean now, isn't it."

Dobby, sniffing, wiped his noise on his sleeve. "Oh yes, Master!" Draco waved his hand back to the table and Dobby, with a quick bow, went back to removing the silverware.

"There. You see?" said Draco.

Even Harry smiled. "Whoever made them was evil, but ..." he shrugged. "They seem happy." He turned to Draco, "She was going on about liberating House Elves all summer."

Draco smiled. "First Azkaban. Then … Kitchens Everywhere!" Hermione frowned.

"S.P.H.E.W. – _The Society for the Protection of House Elf Workers_?" said the Boy-Who-Lived and Draco started laughing.

"It's not funny" she fumed. Draco kept laughing. She shook her head, hair flowing perfectly back and forth "I thought we were here to discuss lesson plans." Draco's chuckling slowed. Harry wiped his eye. Hermione reach into her backpack and pulled eight lengthy scrolls and some loose papers which she passed to Draco. "These scrolls are my notes." She glared at Harry. "If _you_ have anything to add..."

Draco took them carefully, setting some on the clean table to get the rest. "The papers aren't yours, Harry?" Draco knew Muggles preferred loose paper to scrolls.

"Professor Quirrel's lesson plan for first years" said Harry quietly. "They found them in his things." Draco gasped, while Harry continued. "It's not a spellbook. It's just notes on what he thought was appropriate for first years, which spells to teach, which lessons to teach after typical mistakes, rough drafts of speeches. It won't make sense to anyone who hasn't had the course, these aren't notes, more like …. reminders." _And Voldemort practicing thinking like David Monroe pretending to be Quirrell_.

"Wow. He had notes for each year?" Harry nodded as Draco glanced through the papers.

Draco reluctantly set the notes aside. He'd read later, when there were no guests. "I don't know why you need me for this." He looked at Harry, but it was Hermione who spoke up.

"There's an awful lot of stories going around. Awful rumours. It's going to be awkward for everyone. I wasn't around but I know you worked quite hard. After I..." Hermione couldn't make eye contact. "We were all Generals, fair and square. You deserve this is much as we do."

"More," said Harry.

Draco nodded. "I'll look at your notes later and send an owl with thoughts." There was no rush, it was only July. After a pause he asked "Can a _Patronus_ find someone hidden?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think so."

Harry continued "That makes sense, otherwise Aurors could always track people down." He paused, "Now that you mention it, I wonder how they find people who want to be found..." he trailed off, lost in thought. "Typically people tell them where to look..."

"Who are you looking for?" Hermione asked. Harry was barely paying attention. Draco shrugged.

"Snape." He paused for a second, but when there was no question he continued. "Harry and I are … _reforming_ Slytherin." Hermione's eyes widened.

Harry, eyes still closed, quietly said "He'd approve, but he won't come back."

Draco nodded. "This is a bad time. So many of us lost parents. I know most of the families, but I don't know them well. Without Father … there's going to be a power struggle. Struggles. Not just adults. And I ..." he shrugged. "I could use the information he has. He'd know who was sympathetic. He'd know when I'd be wasting my time."

It's not fair to say this conversation caused a war to stir inside of Hermione. But it caused a small skirmish. By now she'd recovered and asked "What about Professor Slughorn?"

Draco shook his head. "Outside the school, yes. Inside? He knows less than I do. By all accounts he's fairly aloof, except for his favorites. He may know more about the families, but he hasn't even met most of the students."

Harry opened his eyes. "I'll try to send a message to Snape. I can take out advertisements but I don't think..." he trailed off as the adults came galoomphing down the stairs. Narcissa was staring at him and she said "Oh, Draco ..."

and Harry felt the dagger in his head, no fire, pain, just a careful _opening_ of his thoughts and memories. _My son is my heart …_ the dagger paused briefly … _Allies? Allies! …_ now moving again _… I want to see if you can learn the Patronus Charm …._ thoughts flashed quickly as Harry set defenses around his private life _My hand wasn't working_ … Harry realized that he didn't need to shield everything, Narcissa wasn't looking for details about Harry, except as they related to Draco … _does the rest of that matter, my son? No, father. …. Dumbledore burned her to death._ As quickly and quietly as it entered, the knife left

"...could you please have Dobby bring desserts? I assume you kids want some as well" said Narcissa, smiling at them all.

Harry Potter piped up "Yes, please!" sounding like a normal eleven year old boy for the first time all evening.

* * *

Author's note (5/5) – Thank you all for the kind words, but here and on reddit.

Update (5/6) - Typo update, and I had some confused writing (I'll blame last minute edits). I've updated Narcissa's comment on wine and Draco's thoughts starting with "It's true."


	3. Correspondence

Draco tied his letter to Tanaxu's leg then gently smoothed her silvery feathers. "Take this to Vincent, then Gregory. Then pick up Hermione's letters." She _always_ had missives with extensive notes and further revisions. Draco enjoyed them. Planning, even for something as trivial as lectures, provided a brief escape. He glanced at the calendar. August 29th. _Summer's almost over._ Draco opened the window and felt the brief fluttering of wings brushing past, releasing his confession before he changed his mind again. The breeze smelled of summer and unlimited potential, so he left the window open. Draco placed himself carefully in the hard wooden chair and inspected his books again. He'd already skimmed Miranda Goshawk's _Standard Book of Spells Volume 2._ Little of note, he knew most already, proof that the Galleons Father paid to tutors had been spent well.

Beside the textbooks sat a small, leather-bound book with title, no markings at all. He leafed through the blank pages. He'd found the diary last week, after a day spent exploring Piccadilly Circus and hiding from obligations. He'd ducked quickly upstairs, not drawing attention to himself. Wasted effort. Mother was nowhere to be seen. Dropping his backpack onto his bed, Draco changed out of his jeans and T-shirt into formal robes,

 _"_ So you are Wizard, again? _"_ Mother had said in early July, after she'd noticed him change. She'd never spoken about her lost decade, but Draco had investigated. She'd done nothing as a Muggle. Cashed checks, lived comfortably but not well. No ambition. No Goals. Perhaps she'd done that before, lived the aristocratic lifestyle she'd returned to. Had Father told the truth, had she been totally innocent of his plots? Then how had she spent her time, before? How had it felt, feeling aristocratic living as a commoner? Had her decade been like Draco's summer?

Draco had cast three cleaning spells, hid his purchases and stuffed the jeans into the back of his closet. Then he'd spotted the book, spine resting against the head of Father's cane. He'd ignored it for a week, but tonight Draco carried the diary downstairs.

"What is this?" Narcissa's feet curled under her, sitting in the Leather chair that Father used to read from. A glass of wine rested on the table next to her. She looked like she'd been there all day. Draco didn't know. He hadn't ventured out since breakfast.

"Why it's a gift, of course." She didn't get up, but kissed him gently on his cheek as he stood next to her. He'd expected more questions, stern glances, even another lecture about "his fascination with useless Muggles." None came. Draco wondered if Mother had resigned herself or settled on a less maternal avenue to express her disapproval. _Does she know what drives me out of here, in addition to what attracts me there?_ _Would Mother set a trap for me? As a lesson?_

Father absolutely would have. Traps provided lessons, all part of the Game. Maybe she'd given up on him.

"Father said ..." She tsk-tsked. He left the question unfinished and started back towards the stairs.

"Lucius forbade you from keeping a diary, didn't he?" Her light voice rang across the room that Draco still associated with silence and whispers. He turned and saw a twinkle in her eyes, some happy thought she hadn't shared.

Draco shook his head. "Not exactly."

"I remember the scene, Draco. Before dinner he'd take ten minutes, perhaps fifteen. Sitting here in this chair in front of a roaring fire that provided the only light, he'd write out his thoughts for the day. Perhaps it would be some stratagem or an observation. His hopes, his dreams, a new spell. Never a letter or an order, he wrote those at his desk. At least three times he composed poems. One was quite good. Lucius would carefully correct mistakes and read over his work. And once he was satisfied he'd stand up, toss the scroll into the fire, and go about his evening." Draco remembered it clearly, just as she described.

He'd asked Father about it, half a lifetime ago.

 _There is a purity to writing down your thoughts. When Speaking you pause and stumble, your lips race ahead of your mind. To write well is to truly understand..._ _But once you do understand, there is no reason to keep around anything your enemies might read._

"You needn't burn anything. This diary won't reveal your secrets, Draco." Narcissa went upstairs, carrying her wine with her.

Draco returned to his desk. Despite Father's example, he felt no desire to write. Draco wrote only to achieve an end like passing a note or getting a grade. Letters simply allowed him to exchange information at a distance.

Tonight Draco wrote.

 _Dear Diary._

Ink dripped from his quill. Draco placed it the inkwell and stared at the wall. He took out his wand and tried to summon his _Patronus_ again. He'd gotten it to work only once after Father died, earlier this summer. A brief moment of happiness, prior to self-loathing. He'd been terrified after Auror Li discovered it, the morning Vincent and Gregory arrived. He hadn't told them he could cast _Patronus_. Before Voldemort died, he'd worried what would they would say. Later he feared he'd never be able to cast it again. And so he'd cast it once, successfully.

Li had kept his secret, Draco probably gained an ally. Guilt and rage prevented him from casting it again. Rage he couldn't escape at home with only Mother and memories as companions. It had taken all of his courage to finally confess, to write the letter explaining what he'd learned and lost, and why he'd hidden it from them. His fears. His tutors had taught him the value of a sincere confession, but it was an advanced technique. Knowing the theory, that confessing his secrets might not drive them away, hadn't quelled his anxiety. Draco wished he could recall his Owl.

Draco practiced spells for a half hour. Eventually he regained some discipline and gathered his composure. He picked up the quill and wrote.

 _I don't know what to do._

Draco gasped as the letters broke apart and reformed.

 _What are you trying to achieve?_

Calligraphy danced across the page with broad loops but straight, harsh lines. The cross on the 't' stabbed like a cut across the page's skin. Draco stared at the page.

 _To save Slytherin._ Draco waited; the letters flowed and the response came back

 _From whom?_

The rage returned. He couldn't write the answer that had jumped to mind. " _From Father"_

Draco closed the book, got up and stared out of his open window into the cold. Dusk had passed and it was dark outside. He saw four dancing lights in the woods, Fiendflies waiting to lure unwary Muggles to their death. At least, that's what Father told him. Probably just lightning bugs, engorged on the _Cibom Deorum_ roots that he'd discovered this summer. After shutting the window, Draco returned to the diary. The front page was blank, no evidence of any writing. He picked up his quill and wrote quickly, his earlier rage shunted aside now that Draco had a goal.

 _From itself. From wrong ideas, from fear. From the sudden vacuum Voldemort's murder of Father and the parents of many of my classmates left. From the knowledge that so many of us flocked to him, even though he was clearly evil. I don't know where to begin._

Draco sat as still as the page's words. He sat listening to the branches scrape gently against the side of his room near the window as the breeze gently rocked a birch tree. Draco sat holding his breath and slowly, deliberately, let it out. He could hear the grandfather clock chime the half hour.

 _So, you are no longer the Scion of Malfoy, but Lord. How old are you, Draco?_

 _You know who I am?_ The answer came almost immediately.

 _I could hardly give useful advice otherwise._

Lying about this seemed pointless and counterproductive. This was Mother's gift, after all. _I am twelve._

 _Then I suggest you not rush into things. The question I asked earlier was premature. S_ cribbles darted around the page, as if to indicate thinking. After a moment, they disappeared and words continued. _The correct question is 'Why are you trying to achieve that? What is your ambition?'_

The page turned itself. The next page was fully written, The conversation had become a lecture.

 _Sometimes, when you cannot find a path to your goal, it may be that you lack the tools. If you wish to lift something heavy you must know how to cast Wingardium Leviosa_ (a summary of the motions and pronunciation were diagrammed on the facing page) _and have sufficient magic._ _But if you have tools and the path is not clear, then often you are unsure where your goal lies._

 _Your ambition is to save Slytherin, but you listed a jumble of problems. You lack clarity and precision, but you are young._ Draco frowned; the page turned.

 _Gather information until you can state your goal. You must ask yourself – "How will I know if I have won or lost?"_

Draco took it in. He felt calm, distracted. Not distracted, he realized. He felt a purpose. One he'd ignored too long.

 _Do not despair if it takes days or months to get an answer. Knowing yourself is difficult. Especially at your age and for several years to come. Most wizards do not truly understand themselves, especially as teenagers._

Draco twisted the quill around several times, then wrote _What are you?_

 _Your birthright._ There was a pause. _One, anyway._ The handwriting took a stern tone. _I am powerful, I am useful. I remember what you tell me. I am guidance, but your plots belong to you._

 _I can impart a vast amount of knowledge. I know some of people, but that your training there is superior to my knowledge. People, emotions, motives sprawl beyond my authors ability to impart. But as regards m_ _ _agic and knowledge, deception and tactics, there I am encyclopedic._ Those things I contain. _The loops and lines relaxed into a more gentle flow. _I am not wisdom, although you may glean some reflected in my words._

 _I am not power, but I am a map that leads to it.  
_

Draco's skin tingled while he read.

 _Think of your ambition._

Draco's resolve, absent all summer, started to return.

 _Ask yourself "How will I know if I have succeeded?"_

Draco heard wings fluttering.

 _A true Malfoy has many ambitions. Think on that._

Draco jumped as the Tanaxu screeched outside his window, a monumental scroll attached to her leg. The diary slammed shut.


	4. Strangers on a Train

Draco strolled onto Platform 9 and three-quarters while adjusting the robes he'd just put on over his charcoal suit with a quiet purple tie and silver cufflinks. Before crossing he'd attracted minimal attention. On a normal day he'd stand out, but the steady trickle of wizards and witches made Draco a safe eccentric. Just a rich brat, not some delusional redheaded homeless clan who wore blankets and pushed a shopping cart loaded with birds. Commuters glanced past Draco and stared at the freaks. They might remember him and look back, but they never could spot him. An accountant offered investment services, Draco nodded dismissively and walked past him. One middle-aged woman stage-whispered "Why can't Andrew dress that well?" Draco silently agreed with her after glancing at Andrew. Muggle style existed, he was proof. Draco had no idea why most choose to ignore it.

Draco got some glances. Mother attracted no attention, a shocking accomplishment given her beauty. Draco had sold the elegant black dress, Narcissa's concession to Muggle fashion, by pointing out that wearing robes stood out and invited a conversation. Mother's dread of interaction defeated her rejection of her Muggle past. Draco feared she'd change back to robes once he departed, Muggle curiosity be damned. Then he'd see exactly how much leverage he had with Li.

As Draco crossed the threshold to Platform Nine and Three Quarters memories of last year washed over him. It felt like ages ago. Last year he'd gawked nervously at the sights and experience, until Father coughed slightly, reminding Draco his place. Now he glanced around the station. Pansy Parkinson sat in one car of the train, staring down at the platform through a window. Gregory stood next to the news-stand, beside Vincent, carefully counting out Knuts to the vendor, candy in hand. Gregory waved to Draco and said something to Vincent. Draco shook his head and motioned towards the train.

He'd meet them later. He had to get out of the suit and adjust his robes.

An oomph behind him and Draco's trunk bumped into his leg before backing away to a fight for position against the interloper. He saw Neville rubbing his shin and Draco realized he'd stopped right at the entrance. Thankfully nobody had bolted through full tilt, as nervous first years sometimes did.

"My fault, Neville." Draco moved away, trunk padding quietly after him. Draco nodded to Augusta Longbottom as she appeared at the entrance. He realized - amused - that her purple flowing dress and wide brimmed hat sporting yellow roses looked equally outlandish on either side of the crossing, too improbable to be accidental.

Prefects from three Houses helped stow first years' trunks, older girls screamed greetings and ran into hugs. Shyer students boarded the Hogwarts Express quickly, loud students mingled on the platform gossiping. A large clock showed 10:45. A new girl, hair almost as blonde as Draco's but shoulder-length, examined the train's steam through outlandishly large orange glasses. With rainbow lenses. Judging from her expression she'd invented some secret of the universe, hidden in the cloud. Cho Chang's hands demonstrated maneuvers she'd seen at Puddlemere United's latest match to the rest of the Ravenclaw team. Lavender Brown and Hannah Abbott stood comparing modified uniforms and giggling. Draco took this all in a quick glance.

Dozens of students, but not Harry. No Hermione, either.

"I'll go. I don't want to embarrass you, Draco." Draco turned around and hugged Narcissa tightly.

"I'll have time to be embarrassed later, Mother," he said, eyes closed, and held the hug. Draco didn't want to see people watching. He might blush. He wasn't embarrassed, not yet, but if he thought about it that could change. He released Mother and stepped back. "I'll see you at Christmas," he said in a normal tone. Tears rolled down her cheeks and Draco wondered if he saw Mother, or if his own mask had been as effective.

Ignoring several slack-jawed stares, Draco boarded the Hogwarts Express behind sixth year Gryffindors, following smoothly in their wake as they scattered younger students. He stopped in the lavatory to fix his attire, and then went to the car he'd seen Vincent board.

"Vincent. Gregory" he said, standing at the entrance. "Hi. Can I come in? I'll leave. If you want."

Vincent let out his breath. "Come in. Greg and I talked about it. I mean, we're all in the same boat. Dad said you'd have secrets, even from us. He told me once most of the time that meant you were either protecting us, or afraid. Of losing us."

Gregory said "Maybe it was a mistake, trusting Lucius advice. My dad worried, time to time, especially when they decided to throw in with You-Know-Who. They understood the risks. Who could have seen that coming? They were close, our parents. Maybe we saw that more than you did Draco. We spent every Boxing Day together. But you weren't invited until last year."

Draco closed the door behind him. "So … we're on again for Boxing Day?"

"Christmas with Family. Friends for Boxing Day. That's what we do."

Draco couldn't express the profound relief he felt. He'd confessed almost everything in his letter. Revealing plots, even his _Patronus_ , felt easy, even cleansing. More difficult was admitting rage at Father, at Father's mistakes, at the emptiness between him and Mother. It felt like opening a wound and handing out salt. Gregory and Vince had reasons to hate Lucius Malfoy and Draco. He'd feared giving out more, showing weakness about his inner conflicts.

It seemed he still had friends, which meant Draco must complete his confession.

"I know it's been hard, even before Voldemort"- they didn't flinch - "killed our Fathers. I know you disapproved last year my helping Granger, or suspected some deep plan. But it was just like it appeared."

"Why?" asked Crabbe.

"Why not? At first I was polite because Potter expected it. Useful. And where is it written we have to be jerks, even to Muggles? Random rudeness makes us all look terrible. I was … I'm still trying to save our House. And I realized, hating Muggles it's not just wrong, it's a sign of weakness, even if it's politically useful."

Draco sighed. "Yet another time Father was wrong. Even last summer at my house, I feared admitting the truth to you after it drove a wedge between me and mother. "

Vincent frowned, and Draco saw them exchange glances as he sat down heavily.

"If she lived with Muggles for a decade and still hates them, doesn't that mean there's something to it," asked Gregory.

"Mother hates them because her life was on hold. She blames them, that's easier than blaming Father. Or maybe herself. I spent a lot of the summer investigating. At first I was trying to find a reason to hate them. And there are reasons, but no different from why I'd hate anybody."

"And this hatred is one reason Slytherin is dying. At some point I'm going to reveal this, to challenge the others' beliefs. If Father were around, I could convince him and it would just be a matter of time, but without him, I might become a pariah."

Vincent and Gregory waited, and Draco made his final confession.

"I could lose. Even winning will cost me friends and support.. 'The boy who tried to have it both ways, who hated Muggles when Voldemort lived and championed them after he fell.' I don't want to drag you down with me. Our arrangement was made by our Fathers."

"And they're gone," said Gregory, "but you know we had a choice."

"Why would I want out now?" said Vince. "Voldemort murdered our families and everyone thinks _we're_ the bad guys?"

"Our fathers bowed to him," said Gregory sharply. "Of course they think we're the bad guys."

"Voldemort championed hatred. Obviously we'd reconsider once he killed everyone. A backlash, starting by victims. In any case I didn't care one way or another. I'm not sure father did. Even if he did really hate them, that wasn't us. We didn't join as Death Eaters," said Vince.

"We might have," said Draco softly. "If he hadn't killed everyone. If he'd returned quietly and kept hidden. It would have been tough not to."

"Yeah, maybe." Vincent bit his lower lip. "Voldemort made it easy to hate him."

"I don't know," said Gregory. "I hate him,too, but I don't know if this will work. Maybe. As long as you don't reveal you were pro-Muggle last year"

"Don't decide now. We can keep being friends without being allies."

Vincent gazed at the ceiling as the train's piercing whistle hurried stragglers on board . "Our year is fine, mostly. Nott and Potter are close, the witches are neutralish, but listen to Hermione, Zabini doesn't like you..."

Gregory said "That's envy. He feels overshadowed."

"He can join the club" said Draco, more bitterly than intended. "Potter and Granger in the same year? In any case he can be General this year, that will cool him off." Draco saw their look. "Potter and Granger resigned. So there's no upside for me as General. If I beat up on rookies everyone shrugs, because I've had a year's experience. And if I don't. Well. Anyway Greengrass is in, too."

Gregory interrupted "How are they deciding replacements?"

"Depends. Some classes are keeping the same generals. It's still up in the air for our year, but Longbottom gets it if he wants. The class gets some say but the Professors do, too. "

"Professors?" they both said. Gregory continued without pause "So, it's a committee thing?"

"Yeah," said Draco with a smile.

Gregory ignored the bait, tacked back to the earlier conversation. "I worry about the older students. Thoughts?"

Draco leaned forward conspiratorially. "I can't tell about the Jugsons. The Carrows lost both parents and hated me to begin with. They'll view this as a personal insult."

"They weren't stable anyway." said Vince. "Most upperclassmen want to bully someone. They'd prefer to pick on Gryffindorks but don't care much" The train lurched once and the platform appeared to be rolling back. Draco saw Harry Potter hurriedly walk by and wondered if he'd just boarded, but snapped his attention back to Vince who was saying "Yeah, we'll be targets."

Gregory shrugged. "We can take them."


	5. Strangers on a Train, Part 2

Draco looked out the window as the train lurched out of the station, still listening to Gregory and Vincent. Once the conversation turned to tactics, he'd finally finally relaxed. He'd confessed everything and they saw the tension flow out of him. They'd lived with him for a year, knew when he wore a mask.

Platform Nine and Three Quarters disappeared from view as the train rolled noisily past a wall. Draco lost sight of the wizarding oasis in rigidly ordered Muggle London. Potter called his army 'ChaosLegion,' but in many ways Potter strode both worlds. Muggle society abhorred chaos. Staring out the window, Draco saw rectangular skyscrapers that stood gleaming, looming over older, elegant stone structures. Modern buildings dominated the horizon like disapproving adult children towering over their parents' shrunken frames, rolling their eyes while listening but not hearing stories of "the good old days."

Ignoring the stories made sense. The good old days were mythical. Some Londoner Muggle transported back a mere century would be shocked at the squalor, filth, and disease. Wizards lived in luxurious style even before Hogwarts. Draco could match Merlin's lifestyle, argue who lived better; only a Muggle blinded by Romantic lies would choose to live in the distant past.

The skyscrapers silently testified the truth. Muggles had arrived but recently.

As the train ch-ch-clunked through London, Draco envisioned the two parallel steel rails underneath it. Perfectly aligned, slightly rusted but no less useful. Well ordered, guiding him at this moment. He hadn't noticed it last year. He'd blindly mocked Muggles with fellow students, laughed at their pathetic ignorance while riding their invention. Wizards stole ideas from Muggles, and not even their best.

Draco had researched trains after Harry's visit. Most Muggles flew, these days. Why waste a full day traveling to Hogwarts when you can arrive in an hour? Trains? Muggle relics. Even the Hogwarts Express, now plodding through the suburbs, belonged in a museum when compared to bullet trains.

In the modern world trains carried coal, cattle, and Wizard children.

Draco stared at the skyline. All this knowledge could have been his, last year. He'd dismissed it with the phrase "Dumb Muggles." Didn't even dismiss it, because that implied he'd considered it. Draco remembered other phrases he'd used: Gryffindorks, Ravenclods. NothingPuffs. (Centuries of trial had not yet cracked the insult code for the 'Puffs, but it had been a lazy effort. All other Houses quietly looked down on Helga's brood so consistently that they'd never felt threatened enough to try hard). The Carrion sisters. Draco saw how amusing quips blinded him.

He'd never truly lost sight of his lessons. He might generalize Houses and stereotype people but he knew that groups contained subtleties: their own intrigues and factions. His training pointed out time and again that everyone viewed themselves the hero of the story. From true kings to the lowliest pawns, to those who never stood atop the board. So even though Draco didn't know or care about most people, he'd tried to remember that they existed. His contempt had dulled that lesson.

Potter and his Father thought nothing odd about discussing how Muggles could help Wizards, that _Wizards deserved better_ than their unfortunate lot. His adventures in London demonstrated dozens of ways wizards could benefit. He'd seen innumerable ways to help individual Muggles; but nothing on a scale. Even ignoring the Statute of Secrecy, even if Draco studied healing and medicine and became Saint Malfoy The Praised to convert Muggle heathens and save their bodies and souls, it wouldn't matter much. He'd be just as useless giving his money to the beggars. They'd overwhelm him, Muggles in London.

Perhaps they'd come by train, nearly two centuries ago, when trains were new to the world.

Vincent and Gregory had been considering the news of Potter and Granger's retirement. They'd grasped the implications accurately and thoroughly, in Draco's opinion. Except for one point, something they couldn't know.

"One thing, though. Potter loved being General. He loved it," Draco said, still staring out the window as the suburbs had fallen away to a not-quite-picturebook countryside. He turned back, rejoining the discussion. "It reminded him of a Muggle story he adores, children generals fighting mock wars. In many ways, our armies were his childhood … a chance to play and bond with children he could consider equals, or close enough. He finally pushed himself and wasn't be treated like a child. He said he envied the respect we Wizards had, from our parents. And he discovered camaraderie, something like … us."

Vincent and Gregory considered this new information. They'd been around Potter, but Harry rarely dealt with them, preferring to deal directly with Draco.

Vincent started first. "If that's true he'd still run an army. He could give away more troops or even fight against the older years. He's not that good, Potter couldn't personally defeat the seventh year armies. There's a balance somewhere."

Gregory chimed in. "They wouldn't mind, as long as he put up a good fight. They'd complain, but just grumbling, nothing serious. Be great to watch, too."

Draco nodded. "Potter's giving it up because he believes he must. Not just to be fair. He has another reason, a compelling reason." Draco glanced out the window again, the landscape finally looking bucolic. "And I have no idea what it is."

Draco pulled down the window shade, conspiratorially. "But we're neglecting half of the equation. Two thirds, actually. What do the two of you want? What are your goals? We'd talked about going out for Quidditch, and you should both do that, obviously."

Gregory, clearly shocked, said "You aren't trying out?"

"I'm not sure. I think my … " he lowered his voice as a group of Hufflepuffs walked by the carriage, giggling at something Hannah Abbot said while she pointed at Gregory, "... slate will be full. We'll see. Besides, I'm a classic seeker build and there's no call for that anymore. What about you, Gregory? Apart from Quidditch. I mean, you're the best flyer we've got."

Gregory mulled it over, eyes closed. "I don't know. Doesn't it seem, you know, premature? Do I have to declare goals right now? We'll be doing all we can to get by. It's not that I'm complacent, but our position isn't stable. For now, we're reacting more than plotting. Chaser for me."

"I'm more of a Beater," Vincent said, then stuck his head into the hallway to gawk as a passing toad flew by. They laughed when Neville shouted "Found him!"

Draco continued. "Yes, we're reacting. But we've got a lot to consider. It may take a month or two. I spent the last few days doing little else, and I'm still not sure."

Vince nodded, then sprawled out across two seats. "Thanks. I appreciate it. When I was younger, I asked Dad why we do it, and he told me that I'd understand the rewards. I never really believed him."

Draco stood up. "Father told me something similar. But if you'll excuse me, I need to consult Potter and Granger." He opened the door to the hallway and paused as a gaggle of first years rushed by.

"About what?"

"Our lecture for first year Defence." Grinning, Draco slid the door shut behind hm and headed for the front of the train. The blond girl with orange glasses lectured a Weasley girl (judging by her hair) about something called a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. He dodged past the food cart, stomach rumbling slightly although it was too early to eat, and sauntered past four older Slytherins, nodding coldly. Two ignored him, but Randy Rookwood nodded back only to glared at by Ethan Jugson. Draco went car after car until he found Harry sitting with Neville and Hermione. Hermione waved him in cheerfully.

"Hello," Draco said. "I had some questions for the Generals..." Neville started to leave. "I didn't mean it like that Longbottom, and anyway, " Harry's lips twitched and Hermione shook her head NO, hair twisting into a tight spiral and then unwinding slightly after her head. Draco coughed to cover his reaction.

 _It wouldn't do to get infatuated with Hermione Granger._

"Thanks," Draco said, and stood aside as Neville walked past. "You didn't tell him? Great, now I'm the prat." Draco arranged himself in the seat opposite the other two. "Harry, I'm sorry I ignored you all summer. It's just hard. And … and Mother wanted to apologize in person but you weren't out there ..."

"You told your Mother that Harry was an _Occlumens_?' asked Hermione.

"No, you did Hermione," said Draco. "as did _every single adult_ in the room." He let that sink in.

"Seriously Harry, you are the worst actor ever. Your parents reacted like you'd turned into a four-headed hydra declaiming in iambic pentameter. Even Hermione's parents looked stunned, and I imagine they barely know you. What did you do to them?"

Hermione started laughing. Harry just shook his head as she pointed at him.

"I've read the books," said Hermione, smiling sweetly.

"Shut up" Harry sighed.

" _Occlumency_ is basically acting," tone serious, but quizzical.

"Shut.. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up."

"So. how can you be any good if..."

"Shuttity- Up" he said, voice rising.

Hermione dissolved into quiet giggles. Draco wondered if they'd started dating.

"I agree with you both. _Professor Binns_ would have noticed. Of course Mother spotted it right away. If you had been alone, Potter, you might have gotten away with it. In any case, she said she just looking for stuff about me."

"With no respect for my privacy," Harry said.

"You aren't family." Draco shrugged. "I had expressed … mixed feelings about you. And your history. Where Father would simply threaten you ..."

"... Narcissa rummages around in my mind" Harry finished.

"Basically. Anyway, she thought you would make a decent friend and apologized to me for mucking it up."

 _After I'd confirmed the truth of what she saw_. Harry Potter hadn't lied, not even during an invasion of his privacy. But, Draco realized that Harry looked good in all the exposed memories. He'd plotted with Draco, allied with him, been tortured by him. And several memories showing Lucius dealing with Harry, possibly afraid of him. He'd left out the _truths from a particular point of view._ It made Draco wonder exactly how bad an actor Harry actually was. He'd ask, but he could imagine Harry's answer, _"I can neither confirm nor deny that I threatened your mother by acting like a normal 12 year old."_

"Did she read my thoughts?" asked Hermione, more ominous than Draco ever remembered.

"She says she didn't."

"And why not?" Hermione's threat level jumped from hippogriff to troll.

"Harry'd already been revealed as an _Occlumens._ She probably didn't dare risk it. _He_ doesn't go attacking Azkaban. Or maybe some female courtesy. I'm not sure how Mother thinks, really."

"Maybe she doesn't consider me your friend?" Hermione continued.

"Are you? You weren't last year," Draco said.

"I'd be delighted, Draco!" she said. The room seemed to brighten slightly and Draco thought _get control of yourself_. _Don't fall for Granger!_ Hermione smiled sweetly. "But tell your mother that I will absolutely destroy her - in a nice way befitting of Sunshine Regiment of course - if she ever tries that with me."

"Of course." Draco decided to go get lunch. "By the way ... about Slytherin. Harry, if there's anything you think I should know..." Just then something chimed from Harry's belt.

"Excuse me. _Muffliato._ " Harry put down his wand and spoke into a mirror, like they'd all had last spring. Draco only heard buzzing.

"You know, Draco, we aren't going to share many classes. Harry and I got tutored over the summer. Harry always did that before Hogwarts and I suspect you did too, but its surprisingly …. efficient."

"So you're in third year?" Draco asked.

"Er, I think you could be tutored and move ahead too. You know we're all ..." Hermione couldn't bring herself to say gifted.

Draco thought about it as Harry put his mirror away and canceled his spell. "It would isolate me even more. I can't afford that now. Although I may request tutoring from Professor … Asimov?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Muggle studies?"

Harry interrupted. "That was Peverell Hospital. Another failed break in. No real problem."

Draco, who had started to get up yet again, fell back into his seat as the train lurched sharply. "And you are providing security." It wasn't a question, more a statement.

"I'm consulting" said Harry steadily. "You must admit I have a talent for those kind of things."

"I do." Draco paused. "Actually, it makes me feel better. That's why you got tutoring."

"Tell me, Draco. What would you do for security?"

"Apart from the fact that you faked the Chalice, I have no idea."

"What?" said Hermione.

Harry looked smug. "Now who can't act?"

Hermione glared at both of them briefly. "What gave it away?"

"I was just fishing," Draco mimed casting a line towards Hermione, "Actually a few things over the summer. The timing seemed too convenient. To suddenly find the Chalice right after all this other stuff. It reeks of you, Potter. Then the Chalice is better than legend? How often does that happen? I'd been confused while reading the stories in the Prophet and I noticed. And you _consulted_ on security so naturally nothing can be easy."

During all of this Harry kept his gaze steady, some unreadable emotion playing across his face, and Hermione nodded sadly.

"Most of the security is by Mad-Eye Moody, really. I don't suppose you've heard of Security by Obscurity, Draco?"

"No."

"Well, you can have security by not telling people how things work. That's OK. It can be pretty good. But if you can show someone exactly how things are protected and that person can't break into it, then you've got real security. To break into Slytherin's Dungeons - oh don't look at me like that Ravenclaw is worse - you just need to know a password. A small bribe, a bit of spying does it. But if I laid out the exact floor plan of Gringotts you'd still have a hard time getting in."

"So you tell your security to everyone?"

"Some Muggles do, but _they_ use amazingly complicated Arithmancy and do it to _prove_ their security is unbreakable. For them, if you don't describe your security everyone thinks something is wrong with it. But I do share the security with a select group, and they try to break it."

Draco listened to this lecture with fingers steepled together, right hand drumming a slight pattern onto the left hand. He'd given Harry his full attention, of course, but he was thinking.

"Mad Eye tells me his security, I try to break in. When I find a new way of sneaking in, he figures out a way to stop me. So do you want to try and break in?"

Draco jumped slightly. That sounded fun, actually. "I doubt I could find something you've missed, especially with your head start all summer. But I could use a distraction. Are there real ways to break in?"

"Nothing's perfect. We have to use the ... " he glanced at Hermione and made air quotes "Chalice to heal people, so it can't be locked away in a vault. Would-be thieves hopefully don't know all the precautions. We've had a lot of attempts over the last month; they've all been arrested. The next set of thieves should be smaller and smarter. They'll plan. Rumour is that German Dark Wizards have formed an alliance..."

Draco forgot about lunch.


	6. Efficient Sorting Algorithms

Draco sat comfortably at the Slytherin table staring up into the dusk sky. Clouds drifted lazily from the North and birds, starlings mostly, darted around. Draco watched the flock expand and contract, thoughts drifting through conversations, weighing potential allies and enemies. Vincent and Gregory's position took up some thoughts, as did recent lessons from his diary, and his earlier conversations on the train. Draco wasn't _thinking_ just _remembering_ and idly considering connections that popped into his head.

Draco's thoughts drifted like clouds above.

Draco had already studied the head table, seating arrangements told a story. At the center sat Minerva McGonagall, black hair flowing freely under her still stern hat. Professors Sprout and Flitwick flanked her. The Headmistress chatted with both, gazing solemnly over the assembled students. On the other side of Flitwick sat Horace Slughorn, leaning over his own belly to chortle as he pointed out entering students to the bored Charms instructor. Beside Sprout sat a man whose deeply scarred right cheek marred an otherwise handsome look. His red and gold robes (and seat) announced the new Head of Gryffindor. Draco didn't recognize him. Other professors sat on wings of the head table. Professor Burbage looked annoyed sitting next to a young-ish Muggle dressed in an oddly styled suit. The lapels were much wider, colors much bolder than suits Draco encountered.. The Muggle's wild black hair, thick plastic glasses and lush mutton chop sideburns looked like nothing Draco had seen in his admitted limited experience. Certainly no teenager he'd met dressed like that.

After taking in the head table, Draco glanced around the house tables. Slytherin's sparseness bothered him so he stared at the sky instead.

The room quieted when the First Years entered, led by Hagrid. Draco's eyes drifted earthward and noticed that the Headmistress already standing. He hadn't heard. She gazed down at the procession of children, barely smaller but much less confident than Second Years. Had it really only been one year? First years waved at siblings and drew themselves close into small groups under the withering inspection of the older students who whispered, jeered, and made clandestine bets. The Sorting Hat, placed on a small stool in front of the head table sat silent until the children filled in the gaps between the tables and stopped.

A small rip in the cloth revealed itself to the gasp of the First Years, and the Hat spoke.

.

 _I'm the cleverest piece of leather_

 _ever formed into a hat_

 _And I've stayed the same forever_

 _Though I change my annual chat._

 _._

 _Since the cornerstone was placed_

 _upon the ground to start our school_

 _The yearly opening feast must wait_

 _while I declaim atop this stool!_

 _._

 _Should you be in Ravenclaw_

 _you'll answer riddles by the door,_

 _For sharpening the student's mind_

 _was Rowena's favorite chore._

 _._

 _If you land in Hufflepuff,_

 _then you'll never lack a friend,_

 _For Helga was the glue_

 _that held together till the end._

 _._

 _If 'tis Slytherin you seek,_

 _then your reward you must chase_

 _For the virtue of ambition_

 _surely drew you to their place_

 _._

 _And every Gryffindor does know_

 _that the path righteous and true_

 _demands the utmost bravery -_

 _Nothing else at all will do._

 _._

 _But I have a secret request_

 _That I choose now to reveal:_

 _Consider those whose grand bequest_

 _created Hogwart's Mighty Seal._

 _._

 _Look closely at our Founders -_

 _consider their full history -_

 _You'll find extended meanings_

 _and glimpse a subtle mystery._

 _._

 _For Rowena was ambitious,_

 _And Salazar was brave,_

 _And Godric fiercely loyal,_

 _Helga clever to her grave._

 _._

 _Each founder has more character_

 _than we remember every day_

 _Do not oversimplify the_

 _complex virtues they display._

 _._

 _What use is noble bravery_

 _if you cannot tell what's right?_

 _._

 _What will you do with cleverness_

 _when you've lost the will to fight?_

 _._

 _How will your true ambition taste_

 _when you're lonely at the end?_

 _._

 _And if you do nothing at all_

 _Who would want you as a friend?_

 _._

 _Tho' our Founders have their virtues_

 _Each exhibits certain flaws_

 _Yet my magic is constrained_

 _to Sorting strictly by their Laws._

 _._

 _So I am a simple top piece_

 _Bound to my appointed task._

 _ **You**_ _can ponder,_ _ **you**_ _can question;_

 _That is from all of you I ask._

 _._

 _Know Thyself! For You are Deeper_

 _than the Sorting I do voice,_

 _I am not your only Keeper_

 _You do daily get a Choice._

 _._

 _Hear me Teachers! Hear me Students!_

 _I do finish now my Song._

 _Those who state opinions firmly_

 _May still be completely wrong._

.

When the Hat began the hall sat rapt and silent, first years stunned by the Hat itself, everyone else by the message. When the Hat named each House their table cheered (not too loud, everyone knows the Hat does not pause). As the song continued into the founder's flaws whispering started. Professor Slughorn looked nervous; might the Hat dare abolish Slytherin altogether? The murmurs rose until the Headmistress' harsh _Shhshh_ quieted everyone.

As the last word resounded in a silent hall, Draco looked around. Scattered claps sounded after a few seconds, nothing like the rambunctious applause after last year's song. What had the hat meant? The Hat had reminded him that each Founder possessed virtues the others espoused. Why?

Professor Flitwick, holding a scroll, said "Creevey, Colin" and Draco's eyes snapped back to the Sorting, all polite attention. The Hat had said ' _Yet my magic is constrained.'_ The Hat chose. That's what it did. Colin went into Ravenclaw. Draco focused on the words as several other students got chosen. One went into Slytherin, which distracted Draco as he clapped and tried to remember the boy's name. That wasn't a good sign. The hat picked the dominant virtue; everyone had a mix of virtues; the Hat did its best. Draco's thinking went in circles.

The blond girl - so _that_ was Luna Lovegood - went to Ravenclaw. Draco snorted.

The Hat admitted it could be wrong. It couldn't come out and say "I'm wrong, sometimes" so it stated that people could be wrong, but the meaning was clear. Draco's eyes narrowed. He should be in Slytherin. He _wanted_ to be in Slytherin. But others thought "Anywhere but Slytherin..." and the Hat accommodated them the best it could.

Did the Hat regret that? Or did it regret putting anyone into Slytherin?

"Smith, Zacharias" spent a slow minute under the Hat's brim before winding up, surprisingly, in Hufflepuff. Draco scanned the crowd for wrongly sorted students, looking to find those who should have been in Slytherin. But he couldn't think of any. Vincent and Gregory were saying something and his eyes settled past them, onto Pansy Parkinson. Could he get rid of her? Should he? He glanced around the Hall, again. Mike from Hufflepuff had potential...he thought about the problem.

Draco realized he couldn't solve it. Nobody wanted to be in Slytherin after last year.

"Weasley, Ginevra" was sorted into Gryffindor to the cheers of her rambunctious siblings. Apparently she was the final student because the Headmistress was getting ready to speak.

Draco realized he could solve _another_ problem and stood up. At first, only nearby students looked at him as he took a deep breath. He made no motion to draw attention to himself, other than standing up, and hoped that it would be enough.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Headmistress McGonagall's voice sounded … mild.

"The Hat said it made mistakes. We should let students who think the Hat got it wrong sort again." This set off loud conversations. Draco could hear the shock and Macnair kicked him hard under the table, hissing "We'll have no House left!"

Draco ignored the pain "It's against tradition, but the Hat practically begged us..."

The Headmistress cut him off. "Very well. Does anyone wish to be Sorted again?"

Silence. Nobody wanted to go first, and Draco couldn't volunteer.

Father's training allowed him to stand up, to speak in front of others, to draw attention to himself. He'd ignored fear and shame often enough, though he felt it. For others, it must be paralyzing. Draco walked to the stool and picked up the Hat, carefully keeping it below his head at all times, then quickly returned to Slytherin table, stopping in front of Vincent. Draco held out the Hat.

Crabbe shook his head. "I can't. I shouldn't."

Draco slowly raised the Hat, "You'd be happier. Let the Hat sort again." Crabbe gave a short nod and Draco dropped the Hat on his head before Vince changed his mind. Draco had a few steps to get back to his seat. The whispering had started when the Hat cried out "Hufflepuff!"

The Hufflepuff table broke into applause, joined by Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Fred Weasley shouted "That's the bravest thing I've seen!" and sounded like he meant it. At the Slytherin table only Draco and Gregory clapped. Draco would have to pretend to lose in the near future, he realized.

Vincent moved to the Hufflepuff Table, wiping his face. He passed the stool, still wearing the Hat, and went back to place it but Padma Patil caught up with him and politely held out her hand. Vincent handed it to her, bowing with a small smile. Padma _plonked_ the Hat firmly on her head with no ceremony.

Draco held his breath, hoping. Padma had been his second in command, after all...

"SLYTHERIN!" came the shout, and Draco clapped, whistled and shouted with rest of the table, except for Pansy Parkinson. Padma's twin Parvarti, sat at Gryffindor, mouth agape and clapped slowly.

When Ginevra Weasley stood up the entire Gryffindor table gasped, and she quickly went into Ravenclaw. At that point the Headmistress stood up.

"Miss Weasley, kindly return the Hat to its place." She held up her hand. "The Hat is available for the duration of the Feast and I, for one, am famished." She clapped her hands twice and the food appeared as Ginny unceremoniously dumped the Hat before rushing to Ravenclaw. She sat next to Luna, who had been sitting alone. Draco tore into a roll and ate.

That had worked out surprisingly well. Vincent would be happier with more friends and less pressure. Padma's surprise had probably saved him at least one beating and meant that there were students, good students, who held sympathy. Draco smiled and ate.

The professors, who normally ate with polite small talk, had an animated discussion that he couldn't quite hear. Professor Burbage filled in the Muggle on details. Draco wasn't positive, but thought The Headmistress had told Flitwick and Slughorn to cool it. The new Head of Gryffindor stared at Draco and a few other students, just eating, no conversation. During the meal three more students went under the Hat, each time causing a hush. Fred Weasley or maybe George sauntered forward just before desert before breaking into a smile and jogging back to his seat under a small barrage of buttered dinner rolls.

After finishing off some iced cake Draco went up and grabbed the Hat, again keeping it low to signal that he wasn't going to put it on. He walked to the Ravenclaw table, eyes locked firmly on Harry Potter.

Harry tried to wave him off but Draco went past Harry and stopped in front of Hermione.

He'd planned a small speech on his walk over. _You are incredibly clever, but not enough to convince me that the Girl who stood up to bullies, Dumbledore, Voldemort and Azkaban is rightly sorted._ But as he walked over, he realized it didn't need to be said.

"You'd never brag," Draco explained.

Hermione blushed. Draco raised the Hat slightly and paused, just in case she refused. Draco placed it gently on her head and "GRYFFINDOR" rang out instantly with enough force to shove Draco backwards.

The hall exploded into applause and Hermione stood up, as boys patted her arm and girls pulled her into hugs. Draco took the Hat off her head and walked back onto the podium. As he sat down he mumbled "Let's see Ravenclaw win the House Cup now," to nobody in particular.

Harry Potter stood up from the middle of the Ravenclaw. "I promised the Hat I'd never wear it again," which sparked murmuring in the hall and a full-blown five hour debate in the Ravenclaw commons room later that night. "But given it's pronouncement, I'd like to alternate between Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

" _Of course you would_ , Mr. Potter," said the Headmistress. She motioned for him to change seats as the students laughed and a few snaps echoed around the hall. "Anyone else?

Colin Creevey switched to Slytherin, which concluded Hogwart's first Re-sorting.

* * *

 **Author's Confession** \- I originally wrote these early chapters as a mood piece, and now consider them a prologue. Since I've gotten good response and I'm enjoying writing this, I'm continuing and play to write out a full year. I'll probably have to take some breaks for that.

For the extended story I've got a good plot, mostly consistent. But I see gaps I can't easily fill. I might be able to do it, but it would make the story worse. I'd be adding epicycles, I fear.

My options are to delay until I can bulletproof it or just enjoy the story. Since I stop writing when considering the parts that give me trouble, I've decided to just keep my momentum and hope that I'll spot a solution without agonizing, and accept that there may be some handwaving if I fail. (I find ideas arrive easiest when I don't force them, a theme played out in Draco's daydreaming above, which I wrote weeks ago).

If, at the end of the story you say "But... but... but...", know that I am well aware of several issues and probably missed more, and I wish I could do better.

This is a complex plot, but it's entertainment (hopefully) and writing practice. Constructing a perfect puzzle isn't my motivation. Also, I believe the world is an ambiguous place. So questions like " _Is Hermione an Occlumens_ " (on the train scene) may not be answered early (or ever).

 _("Such is Realism.")_

In most cases I have answers to those questions in mind when I write the scene (I did for that particular example). Sometimes I flub it, though. I will show scenes without Draco to clear things up more (after the prologue), but not every question will be answered. After answering that particular question I decided that I'm going to, in general, let the work speak for itself except for the cases where I realize that I've fallen to the Illusion of Transparency, then I'll answer and revise (or if I've made an easily correctable blunder). I'm not going to defend the decisions in real time, in part because it gives away too much, and it's just not practical.

If you treat this story as a perfect puzzle, at the end you may discover pieces missing. Or poor connections.

I hope you enjoy the picture, though.

I'd like to put a puzzle in, and there will be puzzles, but that's not in any way my primary goal.

 _Consider this fair warning._


	7. Unknown Unknowns, Part 1

They'd barely reached the common area when Ethan Jugson snarled "Why'd you go and do that, Malfoy?"

Professor Slughorn had escorted them himself, chattering merrily about students' parents, aunts, and uncles. But when they arrived at the solid oaken door that formed the entrance to the Dungeons he'd said his goodnight and tottered off, leaving the students to themselves.

Draco faced Ethan, and as he did Gregory quietly interposed himself between them. Not exactly between them; off to Draco's left. Normally Vincent would be at his right. Ethan wasn't as tall as his older brother Robert, but still stood almost a foot taller than Draco, gray robes with black and green trim, black hair matted down as though just recently washed, hard stubble on his cheeks. His eyes never wavered off Draco and the rest of the crowd moved out from between them, watching.

"I know this will surprise you, Jugson." Draco saw Robert Jugson, who'd returned for his final year, next to Ethan. He didn't see their sister Sara, he glanced around. "But not everything is about me. I understand your confusion, though," he added with a smirk. He spotted Sara directly to his left, casually lounging against a pillar near the fireplace. Harry stood right behind her, talking to fellow ex-Ravenclaw Padma Patil.

"What do you mean by that?" said Ethan.

"That wasn't for me. No great plan. I did that for Crabbe. He felt ... not miserable but not happy. And after last year I shouldn't have to tell _you_ what he's gone through." Draco slowly turned as he was speaking, to take in the crowd and to let them see him. Daphne met his gaze, but Tracy Davis had her eyes downcast. Draco saw guilt and anger and rage and regret in equal measures. "I shouldn't have to tell any of you. I should have seen all of you at the funerals."

Colin Creevy let out a gasp, then tried to make himself invisible by pressing up against the stone wall, hiding in greenish reflections of waves.

"Hate me all you want," Draco continued, "but everybody knows I would have attended your father's funeral whether my father was killed or not. It wouldn't have helped you." Draco had finished his slow circle and again stood facing Ethan.

"It didn't help, Ethan, that I was there?" Ethan stood in front of him, motionless. Even in the dim light of the Slytherin commons room, awash in blues and greens, Draco could see Ethan flush. Robert glowered menacingly next to him.

Draco looked to Gregory. "Did it help, Gregory?" Gregory shook his head no, his jaw muscles clenched tight. "Theodore? Michael?" He looked at the other kids.

Robert spoke tightly, with control. "So you went to the funerals for what, Malfoy?"

"I might have been wrong. It didn't help, but it would have hurt more if you felt shunned. Seeing people, being together when you feel most alone, that's when you need it the most. It is not about me. It is about Us. This House." The Carrow sisters whispered amongst themselves. Draco ignored them.

"And the Sorting wasn't about me. I saw an out for Vincent and nudged him to Hufflepuff." Hestia sniggered at that and started to say something.

"Longbottom showed up at the funerals for the fathers of everyone in my year's armies." Draco said, whirling on her to keep the initiative, the floor. He dare not let this turn into a debate. "He didn't have to." Draco took a deep breath. "Anyway, if you think that was some gambit then figure it out. I left myself with one less friend in a House full of _apparent_ enemies, so it must be a particularly subtle move."

Throughout all of this Harry Potter had managed to keep silent, Draco realized. There were some heads nodding yes, mostly murmuring, but one head slowly shook no. Blaise Zabini stepped forward. "I don't believe you, Malfoy."

"I imagine you'll struggle manfully on," sneered Draco. "Hopefully you'll provide a better reason than just envy."

"I will during our Duel." The murmurs stopped. Gregory eyed Blaise, then Draco. Pansy Parkinson giggled quietly behind him.

"Not to be a spoilsport," Harry started but the crowd shushed him.

"It's ... traditional Harry." Draco said.

Draco considered the implications of a Slytherin Duel and blanched inside. He didn't know _why_ Zabini challenged him. That disturbed him. He hadn't written off Blaise yet as an enemy; Zabini felt too important to write off. He obviously considered Draco an obstacle, perhaps he'd seen his chance here. _Was I a target of opportunity, or had this been planned?_ Nobody could have planned what happened at the opening feast, but it was a legitimate excuse. Draco tried to judge Blaise's confidence. He seemed happy, even smug. Of course, Draco looked supremely confident, did they have the same tutors?

Gregory's hand made a subtle chopping motion, barely waving back and forth.

That settled it. Draco didn't know why Gregory opposed dueling; but even if he was wrong Draco wouldn't gain by going against his advice. Gregory didn't have Father's training, but his own education had helped make Draco better.

"I decline" Draco said firmly and saw Gregory relax. Now to salvage the situation.

"You are up to something, Malfoy" sneered Blaise. "And if it was just to help Vincent, if it was just that, I could forgive you. But you've been skulking around, you and Potter who is suddenly in Slytherin, and that can't be good."

The crowd let out their breath. Someone in the back made chicken clucks. "Blaise, you seem a touch too eager. You've probably been preparing for this all summer. And I don't have much dirt _on you_." He hoped the crowd caught his implication. Draco turned to leave for his room.

"What about me, Malfoy?" said Ethan Jugson. Draco turned back. "I wasn't going to challenge you, never considered it until just now. But I'm curious. I challenge you."

Draco glanced at Gregory, who did the closest he could to a shrug without moving.

"Fine," he said. "I won't fall for his ambush, but I accept. Seeing as how the question arose we'll limit it to Summer?"

Ethan considered for a bit. "Summer in general, but plots affecting Slytherin ..." he paused, thinking. "The full year."

"Agreed. Start in ten minutes?" Ethan nodded. Draco glanced around the room, considering. "As challenged, I say no seconds apart from enforcing the rules. Sorry Gregory."

"That's OK" replied Gregory, relaxed.

Everyone burst into motion, grabbing the chairs lining the room's edge. Others brought chairs in. Harry started towards Draco, but Gregory intercepted him.

"You can't talk to him now" said Gregory. "Rules." Draco left to go to his room, his lazy walk showing a serenity he didn't feel. Harry watched him go then turned to the assembled crowd.

"What are the rules, anyway?" Draco heard Harry say, as he walked out.

* * *

Draco walked into his room and pulled out his journal. _What do you know about the Jugsons?_ He wrote quickly, then he slammed the book shut, not waiting for the answer. Draco closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it, held it, held it and then let it out slowly.

Draco kept breathing slowly and reviewed lessons in his head. He'd had many tutors, of course, but Father had always, always provided the closing lecture, had tied things together, reviewing the exact same lesson multiple times, each time going into more detail as Draco could understand more levels. And the first lesson, well the first formal lesson anyway, had occurred on Draco's fifth birthday.

There had been cake and ice cream, a lovely vanilla that even a five year old could enjoy without any flashy ornamentation or gaudy syrups. But as the day proceeded that had been it. Draco kept waiting for more, for his due, and by mid-afternoon he'd started sulking, even going so far as to kick Dobby, who was cleaning the hallway when Draco stomped to his room screaming that _it was his birthday_. Draco flinched at the memory.

Father had opened the door, frowning. Draco wanted to tell him to go away, but didn't. Even now he remembered his tiny rage at the world, at Father. It should amuse him now, at such a distance, but he felt it while he remembered it, past rage mixed with present shame.

"Draco, why are you upset?" Father asked, calmly. He stood in the doorway (Father never leaned, not that Draco could remember) and looked at Draco, who rolled off his stomach and sat up on the bed.

"It's … it's my birthday, and I didn't get any presents." Draco wiped away a tear and looked up at Father. "I'm supposed to get presents."

Father had nodded solemnly. "Yes, indeed. On your Birthday you get presents, and you haven't gotten any yet." He paused, then said quietly. "What present do you want?"

"You know! I've been talking about the children's Nimbus. They are safe to fly from age four! And _now I'm five!"_ A crushing argument that brooked no challenge.

Lucius Malfoy nodded "Indeed. And how does kicking my elf get you a Nimbus?"

Draco started to talk, then stopped. Then words poured out of him, words of desperation and pleading tripping over his tongue and past his lips in a mad rush to get his present. Lucius held up a hand.

"It didn't help you. You know this, my son." His voice was gentle. "You were just mad. You lashed out at Dobby because you were mad. You knew what you wanted, but what you did doesn't help you get what you want. What would have helped?"

Draco thought about it. "I could have asked you about my present. Or tried to find where you hid it."

Lucius nodded. "You could have even asked Dobby. House elves know everything about the house."

"Dobby could have told me?" Draco had stopped sniffling by this point.

"No. But they are simple; you may have tricked him into revealing where I hid it. The point is that you've kicked Dobby, which didn't help you; and you've thrown a tantrum which hurts you. How can I give you a present when you shout and rage? You would be as spoiled as a child in a play, and you know what happens to spoiled children."

As he remembered the scene Draco realized, not for the first time, that he actually had been spoiled fairly rotten, but there had been limits. He'd gotten no birthday present that day although a Nimbus mysteriously appeared as a gift several weeks later, for no reason that Draco could remember.

"Still," Father had said, "even though you made mistakes at least you knew what you wanted." And then he closed the door to let Draco cry in privacy.

Draco took a deep breath. He'd been forced into this duel. His instinct, which Draco trusted because it was instinct forged in childhood playground bullying, told him that declining a second duel would leave him alone and vulnerable for the rest of the year. He'd cultivated an air of mystery, acting suspiciously, and while Slytherins could respect that they would turn on him if they felt his actions were against them.

Ethan Jugson didn't matter. Even Blaise Zabini didn't matter, right now.

 _What are **my** goals for this duel? Worry about achieving them later._

Draco thought about it. He wanted to preserve his secrets. Dominance over the rest of Slytherin, at least over those young enough to sway. To crush Ethan so completely that nobody would casually threaten him again. He wanted people to consider him cleverer, deeper, than he was actually capable of.

 _I need to be cleverer._ He filed that away for the future. Later, after the duel, he'd review what happened and his mistakes. Perhaps he'd even review it with Potter, as a sign of friendship. Draco pushed that thought away, it wasn't an immediate problem.

 _What is my primary goal, right now?_ Draco figured he had five minutes to consider that. _Tactics be damned, I need to know my strategy._

Draco Malfoy took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly.

* * *

Ethan stood next to the small table, placed carefully in the center of the room. The normal chess board had been set aside, leaning against the fireplace. Other games and quills lined other tables shoved back against the walls to make space for more chairs. First years sat on or (in the cases of smaller ones) crouched under those table. Even Potter didn't rate a chair. To Ethan's left the taller Robert Jugson loomed over the table. Draco calmly walked over to the empty high-backed chair opposite Ethan. The table stood empty except for one crystal flask perfectly centered.

Draco sat down as soon as he got to the table and, while Ethan still stood, Draco reached over and pulled out the flask's stopper. He dipped his index finger in, stuck out his tongue and let one viscous drop of Veritaserum fall, making sure that those nearby could see it. Draco pushed the flask back towards Ethan.

The first drop tasted of winter and almonds, a taste Muggles might call spear-a-mint for lack of a better word, and Draco felt a chill run down his arms. Ethan carefully placed one drop on his tongue, surprise on his face. Robert took the stopper and put it back into the flask.

"The second drop burns, and it reminds me of mandrake but it's still cold. You didn't accidentally swallow too much, did you?" Draco said pleasantly.

"You don't have to worry about me, Malfoy," Ethan said.

"But I do worry for you! _Hm_ , I guess it hasn't taken affect yet." It was an obvious joke, but some younger students still laughed. Draco needed more time to think, so he closed his eyes. Otherwise he'd spend too much time trying to read the room and that was a distraction, now. He'd figure out the impact later. It would be much less efficient, but he'd have more time.

After a few minutes, the chill in his arms suddenly ignited and raced back up past his shoulders and into his face. Draco opened his eyes and the room took on a clarity, a sharpness like the opposite of a dream, and he could see the lines of the walls, the firmness of the table. Shadows which danced and would normally conjure up daydreams of monsters and images appeared as nothing more than tricks of light and darkness, lies the light played.

Draco nodded and waited for the first question. Ethan ran a hand through his hair, which didn't change its appearance at all. Draco wondered how he'd spent his time before the duel. Worrying?

"I don't suppose any of what you said before was a lie?" Ethan asked.

"It was true. Well, since you wasted a question, I may as well. Did anyone put you up to this?"

"Of course not. That's insulting." Ethan held the bottle of Veritaserum and idly pushed it back and forth between his hands. Draco didn't think that it was a gambit, just a nervous gesture. He didn't know Ethan well. Robert, his older brother, was a thug and Draco had expected him to be the boy's prefect, but maybe his outburst last year had cost him. In a Slytherin duel, Robert was too dull witted to be a threat to Draco and probably even aware of it. But Ethan, unknown fifth year Ethan. Draco wasn't sure.

"No more so than your question. As if I'd be stupid enough to accept a Slytherin duel right after making a bald-faced lie."

"It could have been a double bluff" said Robert, quietly.

"This isn't a play, Jugson." Draco snapped. Father used the line often enough; it felt good to be on the giving end and Draco saw the barb hit home. He almost sighed, then caught himself. _Focus on your goal._ "I apologize. That was uncalled for, but you know the rules. Next question?"

Ethan tilted his head towards Blaise. "Why didn't you accept his challenge, why mine?"

"Because you're doing this fair, to discover my secrets. I think Blaise already knows a secret and his challenge was just an excuse. You just wanted to know. That's the difference." Draco paused. "Are you plotting to kill or assault me?"

"No! Why would you think that?" Ethan looked confused.

"I saw how you looked after Crabbe sorted." Draco paused. "I assume your last question was rhetorical, so it's still your turn."

"Do you think you'll be attacked?" Ethan had stopped playing with the bottle, and had put his hands underneath the table.

"Yes. With Father dead I'm much more exposed than last year, and I have enemies. And now with Crabbe gone I can't expect Goyle to stop every attack, sorry Gregory, but we both know it." Draco drummed his fingers slightly across, then tilted his head.

"Did you know your father was a Death Eater before he died?"

"I … I didn't have proof. But yeah, some of his comments, some of his brags only really made sense. I knew." Robert moved away from the table. Questions were supposed to go quickly, but Draco didn't push things, and he knew that he'd use the time more effectively. As he waited Draco saw a look of dawning comprehension on Ethan's face.

"Why are you going easy on me, Malfoy?"

"What makes you think I'm doing that?" Draco shot back.

"Answer or concede."

"I don't have a problem with you, Ethan. Or your family. It does me no good to drag a secret out of you and make an enemy."

"How do you intend to win the duel?" asked Ethan, turns forgotten.

Draco shrugged. "I don't. I don't … OK, I care about losing." He surrendered a wan smile. "Stupid Veritaserum, but losing isn't important compared to the good of Slytherin. To save it, because it is in danger."

Blaise Zabini, forgotten and sparked with a growing rage, said "This isn't a duel, it's a love fest!" Half of the room (but only half, Draco noted) shouted him down. Robert, now back against the wall, looked thoughtful. Draco saw the nods, the glances. "You're just doing this for your own gain!" Blaise continued.

Draco pushed back his chair and stood up to full height. "I could tell you things, Zabini. You felt snubbed by Quirrell so you dig stuff up on me instead of seeking real power, like I did. I have more important things than internal intrigues of our House. Anyway, I don't have to answer your questions. I'm not dueling you." He sat back down and faced Ethan.

"That wasn't a denial, Malfoy" said Zabini. Draco ignored him.

"Ethan, do you hate your father? For going out that night or joining up in the first place?"

There was no hesitation. "Of course. But you already knew that. You feel the same way about your Father." Draco nodded, smiling on the inside.

Draco didn't trust divination, practically nobody did, but he saw the future. Blaise stood furiously by the table, impotent and unable to ask the question left hanging, that the room was dying to ask.

Draco couldn't tell people about last year, all the things he'd done. Even under a drop of Veritaserum admitting it would be too dangerous, too risky. It would be bragging – an eleven year old being set up as Minister of Magic – he could hear Professor Quirrell's first rule in his head when he'd considered the idea. Even revealing his Patronus felt premature.

Everything had resolved, if not perfectly then well enough. He hadn't embarrassed Ethan or any of the Jugsons, not much. Just enough to show respect, he thought. Blaise was an enemy but no worse than before. Draco had stated under Veritaserum that he felt the House was in danger and he was trying to save it. That was the important point. He'd given enough proof to assuage any doubts. His secrets remained hidden.

Any minute Ethan Jugson would ask about some confidence – or some plot - and Draco would quickly concede and leave having achieved all his goals. The small loss of face would be more than compensated by giving providing confidence to those inclined to trust him. Draco wondered what Harry Potter thought of this, would he recognize Draco's victory … _Just like in a play_ … Draco frowned as Ethan spoke.

"So tell me, Malfoy, do you fancy Granger?"


	8. Unknown Unknowns, Part 2

"So tell me, Malfoy, do you fancy Granger?" Ethan had asked.

The word _No s_ tuck in Draco's throat. Draco heard boys sniggering. The girls made no sound and he didn't know which bothered him more. Harry Potter lounged against the back wall, expression no longer unreadable. _He's smirking, damn him_. Draco tried saying 'No' again, just to check.

Ethan Jugson smiled, lips pressed together. "Take all the time you need. No rush." He dramatically interlocked his fingers and put them behind his head. Draco considered conceding and instantly discarded the idea. Conceding now meant failure, his preceding speech forgotten. Father had taught him _In any experience, people remember only the most dramatic moment and the final moment_. This was the most dramatic moment - Draco dare not make it the final one as well.

"I don't know. I may be infatuated," he said.

Draco now faced another problem. Going on the offense meant admitting Ethan had struck a nerve. So, he'd keep lobbing easy quaffles at the center ring until the topic changed.

"What makes you ask?" said Draco.

"Oh, Sara saw you talking to her and Potter on the train and said you seemed … distracted."

"We were discussing... " Draco started casually, but Ethan cut him off even before Blaise snorted.

"I didn't ask. Why do you think you may be infatuated? Seems an odd thing to not know." Ethan had the initiative and planned on keeping it. Draco had planned to lose, but that was before Ethan started winning. _That's what I get for considering this a solitaire exercise._

"The last few times I've seen her she's had this glow around her. I'm worried I'm falling for her."

 _I didn't have enough time or information to take Ethan into account._ Draco scanned the crowd for fellow children of Death Eaters. Ethan's eyes narrowed at Draco's answer, but he was in a duel, that could be anything. The Jugsons seemed calm. Earlier the Carrow sisters had hidden behind their tangled black hair, like Bellatrix Lestrange sported during her heyday, faces hidden from Draco's view. They'd whispered amongst themselves all during the duel, clearly on Zabini's side. But now they'd brushed their hair back, leering and making smooching noises in Draco's direction.

"Would you date her, Ethan. If she was older?" Draco kept his voice light. _Just another simple question, chatting with an old friend_. He projected the calm he felt slipping away.

"Of course not. She's a mudblood." _One question answered_ , thought Draco. "That doesn't bother you, Malfoy?"

"Not as much as dating a girl who destroys Dementors," Draco shot back, waiting for the laughter to fade as an excuse to consider his question. He hadn't planned on winning but now saw several options. He didn't have time to compare. Plots were best pursued at leisure, planned carefully, but Draco didn't have time. _That's the point of dueling._ Draco chose a non-committal gambit.

"Since you disapprove, _instruct me_. What do you look for in a witch?" Draco smiled - that question was a minefield. Ethan might consider it not worth answering, just to win a duel. And if Ethan answered and pressed the point, well, he was younger. He could (truthfully) plead ignorance with no loss of face. Draco tried to remember who Ethan had dated, but couldn't. Draco suspected he'd never known. He paid attention to everyone but _Time is a Malfoy's most valuable commodity_. Older students' hadn't been a priority. He hoped the assembled witches would glance at Ethan's girlfriend (or crush); but their looks didn't form a pattern. Ethan hadn't answered yet.

"Conceding?" Draco asked. Elsie Ambrose stood looking down at the floor, hands clasped together tightly. She had a crush on Ethan, possibly; Draco filed that away. Pansy Parkinson stared directly at Draco, watching his eyes slowly scan the crowd.

"Obviously looks are important, and a nice figure. And not bossy."

* * *

Harry Potter had watched with growing interest as the duel unfolded before him. He didn't have Draco's experience, his tutelage in manner, tone and bearing. He'd been in many arguments but never formal debates. He'd never even imagined a Slytherin duel until a few minutes ago. But Harry didn't need any particular training to recognize that as a bad answer, at least as Slytherin witches judged. They hooted ample feedback.

Harry thought Draco seemed distracted. _No, not distracted. Attentive to many things. A wide-angle lens._ Harry couldn't see Ethan's face, wondered where his focus was. Harry's hands sweated. Very lightly. He'd never faced social anxiety, not the stereotypical nerd shyness. When 'In the moment' Harry didn't feel social pressure, possibly didn't recognize it. And threatening situations, social or otherwise, provoked his Dark Side which forcefully shoved fear and self-doubt aside.

But _watching_ Draco play Slytherin Truth-or-Truth with a fifth year left him nervous.

"So, just like your mother?" asked Ethan. Harry started to say something. He hadn't caught all the rules but he'd gathered duels shouldn't dissolve into playing the dozens. "How does it feel, her coming back from the dead?"

"Family is off limits, Jugson." Harry heard the edge, the threat.

"I'm not asking about her. I'm asking how you feel." Ethan pressed the point.

"You are fishing. Too vague. I don't have to answer." Draco hadn't been leaning forward, but leaned further back.

"You didn't complain when I asked how you felt about Granger" came the smooth reply.

"That brooked a single implication," Draco said flatly.

Before, words had drifted out slowly, and there were pauses. Some awkward, some artful, and not all of those had belonged to Draco. Over the last minute, though, lulls and empty spaces had fallen away. The legato fireside chat transformed – accelerando - into a brisk march. Harry wondered if that was traditional, part of the unwritten rules that so often formed a larger part of any game than the rulebook. Perhaps this was some strategy, but Harry couldn't tell whose. Now there were no pauses as words volleyed back and forth. Question and answer, call and response. Draco sounded the same to Harry, no change in timbre or pitch. Ethan sounded excited; he'd found a thread worth pulling. Harry leaned forward, for once part of a crowd.

"You're mad she's back, Malfoy?"

"Yes. You resent your brother's outburst after your father died, Jugson?"

"Yes. Because she abandoned you?"

"No. Because he'd been invited to join, and you hadn't?"

"Yes. Because Lucius should have figured it out and rescued her?"

Draco stuttered slightly. "N...Not really. That's only a minor part. You wish Robert lay dead beside your Father, don't you Ethan?" The last came out quickly, raggedly. The exchange had only taken seconds and now time seemed like it should slow, like it should stop.

"I withdraw the question, Jugson. I concede."

A second later Draco stood up as the chair pushed back from the table. Gregory preceded Lord Malfoy by several steps. To Harry Potter it seemed like they'd moved as a single unit, he couldn't tell if Draco pushed the chair back as he'd stood up, or Gregory had tugged the chair and Draco, responding to the motion, stood up. Gregory had never said a word, never threatened the integrity of the duel or interfered. But ... his hand had been clasped on the back of the chair, grip tightening at each of Ethan's last questions. Goyle and Malfoy were practically out of the common room by the time Ethan heard the words.

Padma Patil turned to Harry Potter. "I'm beginning to think this was a mistake."

* * *

Footnote - Lucius's rule ( _In any experience, people remember the most dramatic moment and the final moment)_ is a restatement of the "Peak End Rule"

Author's Note - The next update will be Weds.


	9. Known Unknowns

Harry knocked on the door. Gregory cracked it open, glanced at him, then opened the door just wide enough for Harry to slip through.

The room, off the hallway between the entrance to Slytherin House and the commons, felt spacious. Not as large as Harry's trunk, but almost as large as the room his trunk sat in last year, with the rest of the Ravenclaw first year boys. There were three relatively spartan beds, one along the far wall and one each on the left and right. To the right of the far bed Draco sat at his desk, back to the door, writing furiously. Stairs leading down into a small pool of water to the bed's left. Harry wondered if it connected to the pond he passed on the way in.

Gregory walked over to his desk and half-leaned against, half sat on his hands. After a few final notes, Draco firmly shut the small black book, and gently pushed it against the black lacquered cane resting in the crack between desk and wall.

"Hello Harry," Draco said as he stood up. "Sorry, eventful evening."

Harry nodded towards the pool. The torches (torches! Finally!) on the wall provided ample light to play across the small waves that lapped against the top stair, but never seemed to escape past it. "Aren't you worried something may come out of the water?"

"Not really," Draco said. " _Alceriato!_ " The water bubbled noisily, but still never spilled out of the pool. Even inches away from the edge the floor stood bone dry. "It's uncomfortably warm even for a magician. A merman, well..." he shrugged. " _Tepidius!"_ The bubbling faded as the enchantment ended. "In any case it's also an escape route."

Gregory angled his head towards the door, an inquiring look. Draco ignored it and sprawled out on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. "What say you, Gregory? Should we offer Crabbe's bunk to Potter?"

"I don't know, I'd have to think about it. You snore, Potter?"

Draco's tone had been playful, but experience left Gregory no doubt as to the intent. Draco wanted Gregory's opinion, he had doubts.

"I suppose there are upsides," Gregory said noncommittally. Gregory thought that it would be exciting to have Harry Potter for a room-mate, and possibly useful. But Gregory had seen, second hand, the toll that Harry's friendship had put on Draco.

"I didn't mean to impose. In Ravenclaw each year has a room," said Harry.

"Oh, you know very well that's how it works here, too, Potter." Draco waved his hands towards the commons area. "Gregory and I will be summarily booted back there in a week or two, no doubt. So it doesn't cost me anything to be make the offer." Gregory chuckled.

Harry sat down on what he now considered his bed. "Was the duel that important?"

Draco sat up and looked at him, then shoved his back against the wall and drew his feet up against his chest. "That? Not really, which is why I could concede so quickly. That was but a symptom of the reduced status of House Malfoy."

"Then why Strategema with Ethan," Harry asked. Seeing puzzled looks, he explained. "From a Muggle show. A master player frustrates another master by making inferior moves during their game. He ignores superior moves to play for the draw. Which infuriates his opponent."

Draco shook his head. "Nothing so clever. The Duel gave me an opening. A chance to confirm that people could trust me. Could back me, without appearing weak." Draco rested his knees on his chin. "Trust is a rare commodity, here. Ethan handed me a bottle full of it and I decided how to play it, without considering him. And you know the worst part? I'd warned myself against that type of mistake earlier today"

"Well, you got to state your case."

Draco turned slightly towards Gregory, who shook his head.

"Nobody will remember that tomorrow. They've probably forgotten already. If we had people reinforcing our position, restating it..." Gregory trailed off. Potter could figure it out.

Draco sighed. "Every strength has a corresponding weakness."

Harry interrupted. "And vice versa, like using truth serum to your benefit, Draco. That was a good idea."

Draco bit his lip. "Thinking logically helps you, but blinds you to how others think. You can work it out, but it takes time. I'm wondering if it's blinding me, too." He pulled his knees closer.

Harry Potter had seen Draco in a variety of moods before, but morose was new experience.

"I suppose it does. No, I know it does. Its one of those cases where I want to believe people will work things out, despite all the evidence I have from last year. But I have a friend with a masterful understanding of human nature."

Draco snorted. "He's talking about you, Gregory."

"Obviously."

From the noise in the common room it sounded like the prefect had ordered the first years up to their room, the room that Draco had never set foot in all last year.

"Is it really that bad, Draco?"

"I don't know. Imagine how Robert feels, knowing Ethan didn't answer quickly. I had to resign, right away, before he answered. That doesn't even get into Ethan and Sara. I should have never made that accusation." Draco shuffled over to his dresser and started to put away his cloak, to prepare his bed. "And the part that I never considered, was how much I'd been lying to myself. That shook me."

"People lie to themselves all the time, Draco" said Harry.

"Not consciously," said Gregory. "The … awareness of it, that's novel. We could see it, we all saw Draco trying to answer and not being able to." Harry Potter had never seen this side of Gregory (or Vincent, he remembered) and realized that _of course_ Draco Malfoy shared an easy camaraderie with his friends. With a shock Harry Potter remembered Gregory's long pause under the Sorting Hat. At the time, he'd naturally assumed the choice was between Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Now Ravenclaw seemed likely. Lord Malfoy dare not share his secrets with fools, nor would he want fools helping his children.

Gregory's public silence showed that he understood his role. And nothing more.

Harry Potter stood in a room with Draco's consigliere. One of them, anyway. The memory of Lucius with the Elder Goyle and Crabbe, their unspoken coordination, flash to mind. That kind of trust required years. Perhaps generations.

Harry reconsidered if living with Draco would be a good idea, and tried to remember exactly how he'd been invited. _Just how detailed a message could they exchange under my nose?_

Draco sighed. "Every. Single. Witch. Has probably heard about this by now."

Harry suspected some heard it hours ago. "I should, uh, go get my trunk. I'll be back in a bit."

"Do you need any help?" Gregory and Draco asked simultaneously.

"No, I'm fine." Harry stopped at the door. "Well, there's one thing, at least. I think Salazar Slytherin would approve of this tradition. Who knows? Those duels may date back to Slytherin himself."

"What makes you say that?" Gregory asked, while Draco said "Not that I've heard of."

Harry _definitely_ saw them exchange a look that had meaning he couldn't read.

"Maybe I should find another place to stay," said Harry. "I mean, I think I'd be intruding."

"No, I think you should stay, Potter," said Draco. "But if you do we can't go tip-toeing around like this. I've kept your secrets mostly, from Vincent and Gregory. But if you move in we don't exclude Gregory. You'd be here with _both_ of us. Everything I'm in. I've told him my side already, but … we built up our relation by sharing secrets. This won't work if we all have to spend minutes thinking about what to say."

Harry turned to Gregory. "So, when you said there were upsides..."

"Better to have you inside pissing out, Potter. I live with Draco in any case, I'd like to understand how you spin him around. And since we're all working to save the House" – now Harry shot Draco a look, one that Gregory read easily as 'I suppose fair's fair, but still...' – "it will make all our lives easier."

"So, to confirm, the two of you are inviting me to live here?"

"Until such time as we get booted back to the 2nd year floor," said Gregory, and thrust out his hand.

Harry shook it. "I've got to get my stuff." Gregory held firm.

"So, what did you mean, about Salazar?" asked Gregory, releasing the hand. "What do you know about Slytherin that we don't?"

Harry Potter stood there, thinking.

But he wasn't the only one.

Harry Potter thought faster than most students, faster than most adults even, and he thought faster (and in some ways, deeper) than Draco Malfoy. But he didn't think _orders of magnitude_ faster. Harry Potter quickly considered the implications of revealing his secret to Gregory, whom he didn't know well, and to Draco, who would realize the implication eventually.

But most of Harry Potter's legendary speed came from the fact that he thought ahead. Harry planned for routine trouble and spent time considering trouble most people wouldn't think about. From Harry's point of view, being surprised at his speed of thought was about as useful as being surprised that a Grandmaster could defeat dozens of players simultaneously with almost no effort.

While the Master's opponents stared at the chessboard at move 10, the Grandmaster recognized this game and knew the best move for each response. Grandmasters, as part of their journey, literally wrote books about standard positions. Not only did a Master (of any endeavour) think more clearly and deeply than a novice, in most cases he didn't have to think at all. Certainly not against lesser players. Becoming world class meant outpreparing most opponent, and only out-thinking the truly worthy. Harry Potter's thought _ahead_ about battles, gambits to get or hide information, reacting in the face of disasters. He'd trained himself how to think.

In a novel situation Harry Potter could find a great move, a clever move. But he hadn't prepared one for this.

Harry Potter had wandered into a game half played because he'd tried to cheer up Draco without thinking about it and because he'd been so struck by the symmetry of Draco's Duel and his own experiences (in all respects except for the stakes) that he'd just blurted out his cheerful message. So, for the first time in several days, Harry Potter analyzed a novel position – _whether to tell Draco and Gregory_.

Harry Potter understood his mistake in making the offhand comment as soon as Gregory asked the question. So, he'd started to think a few seconds before Draco did. But he wasted those few seconds hoping that in in a few years he'd move past these simple mistakes to make more interesting and complex mistakes. _And_ deciding that he didn't fault himself for having tried to cheer up Draco. So, once again, Harry Potter had jumped the starters gun when out-plotting those around him.

But Draco didn't have to think, just remember. A Green-and-Silver lettered day from last year sprang instantly to mind. Draco recognized a mate in one. His only decision: speak or stay silent.

On a normal day Draco Malfoy would have stayed silent. Silence, perhaps masked by meaningless chatter, was usually the prudent course. Silence revealed little. But _today_ Draco felt ambushed by fate and, as so often happens, a player who just blundered away one piece often stops thinking and plays the next obvious move. Or is so relieved to spot a potentially good move that they play first, analyze later (if at all).

But mostly Draco felt annoyed that Harry lacked the courtesy to keep up small talk or try to deflect the conversation while he thought. That insult, more than any calculation, led Draco's revelation.

"Potter's the Heir of Slytherin, Gregory." Gregory's eyes bugged out, then narrowed. Harry Potter turned, took out his wand and cast several wards on the door, then sat on what all three boys now considered his bed.

"I'm not the Heir. But I am Parselmouth. Draco discovered it actually. It's not the sort of thing I'd tell anyone, even Draco. That's why I was thinking. It's not that I don't trust you to keep my secrets. But a lot of people would react ... poorly if I told them. Anyway, Draco was around when it happened. To me it just sounded like English. But Draco couldn't understand it and I'd never even heard of a Parselmouth."

Gregory, more so than either of the other two boys in the room, was in a totally unexpected situation, so it was Draco who interrupted.

"That doesn't really clear it up."

"You can't lie in Parseltongue. It's not quite the same as the serum, I think. It's like two drops, but you can stay silent. But if you speak, you say the truth."

"And what happens if you say something that you don't know is a lie? Do you state the correct information?"

"I don't know, Draco. I don't think so. Almost certainly not" _If Parseltongue revealed truths unknown to the speaker, Voldemort would have certainly discovered he had an infallible Oracle_. Harry felt practically certain that Parseltongue, like Veritaserum, relied on the subject's state of mind. He'd decided this as Draco walked to his desk and took out a scroll.

"Let's experiment. I don't suppose you know many spells about repairing garments? No? Well, I'll tell you about three of them, one of which is incorrect, and then you say it in Parseltongue … if one of the descriptions changes, then we'll know."

Harry considered the experimental protocols, even though he considered it a forgone conclusion. "If Gregory knows which one is a lie then he shouldn't be visible to me, Draco. I might be able to get a clue from that. It's called the Clever Hans effect..." Harry Potter went on to describe correct experimental protocols at some length, being sure to clarify points for Gregory that Draco already knew.

The experiment proved it. You couldn't _knowingly_ lie in Parseltongue. Harry confirmed that he said "There is a 2/3rd probability that this spell works as follows," because of the information he knew. Once Draco revealed that _Percaxia_ actually cleaned, folded and pressed clothes (and did not fix frayed hems, as he'd written down), then Harry could no longer describe it as a _twice likely as not c_ _lothess mending sspell,_ which he'd been able to do earlier and caveats disappeared for the other two descriptions.

* * *

Later that night, staring up at the ceiling as Harry and Gregory slept, Draco mentally berated himself. He reviewed that day's mistakes, how the cascading failures piled up. He'd done well, in many regards. He'd seized opportunities and forged ahead. _But … but …._ Draco couldn't sleep, and rather than toss and turn and fight his insomnia he put his time to use and reviewed the day. He mentally made notes.

Some mistakes he'd only noticed later in the clarity of the night, to the sound of Gregory's snoring.

Draco Malfoy understood his biggest mistake hours earlier. In fact, only several heartbeats after revealing Potter's secret Draco realized the enormity of his mistake. Years later, after he had a more adult control over his emotions, _that_ mistake would be the one that woke him up at night – Revealing his understanding instead of saying silent and _thinking things through first_.

Like Potter had been trying to do.

The slim comfort Draco took was that _he'd at least carried on his conversation as if nothing had happened_. He'd avoided the exact same mistake Potter had been making. He hadn't stayed silent (or worse, gasped dramatically) to reveal his thoughts. He'd quickly changed the subject, and changed it well.

He'd offered Harry an experiment.

Draco had no idea if it distracted Harry. Probably not, but Professor Quirrell taught _when your only hope is slim you still take it_. Draco had no illusions. Harry Potter was neither God nor Monster; legends had already grown around him but Potter wasn't omniscient, just infuriatingly clever. And, like Draco, Harry's youth left him prone to mistakes.

Draco wondered if he underestimated Potter (Harry complained about that often enough). But he'd sometimes overestimated Potter.

More so than anyone else (that he knew), Draco Malfoy had observed Potter up close, had seen his thought processes. He'd seen Harry's powers, magical and non. He'd tried, to the best of his ability, to sort truth from fiction about Harry Potter. Months ago, his intuition told him that Harry Potter defeated Voldemort. He had no evidence. He could think of no experiment. Draco used the old ways of plotting: he assembled facts, gathered information, and thought. He reviewed them again and again that night.

* Harry's _Patronus_ was brilliant and blinding.

* His knowledge of that spell was profound. He'd taught Draco; He'd known Draco could learn it, a fact that surprised Draco and would stun most Slytherins.

* Harry wouldn't reveal his _Patronus_ directly. It contained a secret Potter made an effort to keep hidden.

* According to everyone, Harry Potter terrified a Dementor at Hermione's trial.

* … without even summoning a _Patronus_.

* Granger's death drove Potter relentlessly.

* He clearly cared for her deeply; more than Draco, possibly more than anyone else.

* Hermione Granger came back from the dead at the same time that Voldemort - her presumed killer - died.

* Hermione Granger could destroy Dementors. She'd destroyed them all, at Azkaban.

Draco had listed those clues over the summer. These facts marked Harry Potter, his friend and rival, as the sort of person who would always outshine him. But also as the boy who avenged Father's death.

He couldn't prove it. He'd probably never have proof. Harry, despite his boyish blunders, would never reveal the fact to anyone he was not completely sure of.

Draco agonized countless hours, wondering if Potter could have prevented Father's death, could have been more clever. Draco didn't know, been afraid to ask. Been afraid of how he might act. Since Draco couldn't trust his own reaction to the news he could hardly blame Harry for being unsure. Harry would never tell him. For friendship, perhaps, but for his own reasons.

Draco knew all of this. He'd pieced it together over the summer, along with his understanding that Father knew he was going to his death that June night.

Draco glanced at the cane on his desk, silver snake head placed so Draco could see it from his bed. The cane Father carried constantly, the Sigil of House Malfoy handed down across centuries. Draco had unlocked some of its secrets, his diary had revealed others. His other birthright.

The cane Draco discovered that night leaning by Father's chair.

A sign, sure as any letter, that Father suspected. His farewell to Draco. Perhaps he'd always left it at home, years ago, when he dealt with Voldemort. Perhaps he feared Voldemort might not restrain himself, might challenge his power against the weight of House Malfoy. Perhaps he could not conceal it, dare not risk anyone spotting it. _How often had he left it there? Just in case_... so his beloved Narcissa could pass it down to his infant son. Or maybe he'd discovered some dread secret and went knowingly this one time, to protect Draco. Draco didn't know. The game of subtleties had limits. He'd lost the summer wondering.

Could Potter have saved Father? In that regard, Draco felt comforted by his months of reflection. It seemed unlikely. Even if Potter had been there with the Death Eaters, it would be ludicrous to assume he could deal with them and Voldemort. Six hours ago Draco Malfoy trusted Harry Potter, mostly. If he'd been under Veritaserum Draco Malfoy would feel compelled to use a heavily footnoted definition of 'trust' that would cement his reputation for deviousness, terrify Hufflepuffs, and make Potter proud over the sheer precision and deep implications.

Three hours after midnight on the first day of school, Draco Malfoy lay awake agonizing over the new fact (not proven, but probable) he'd added to his list.

 ** _Harry Potter chatted with Voldemort before he killed him._**

Now, with the moonlight's reflection bathing the commandeered room in a silvery glow, Draco's list of facts about Harry Potter looked alarming.

* * *

Author's Note - This ends the prologue.


	10. Defence and Offence, Part 1

_For problems: Attack the urgent, consider the important, ignore the rest._

 _\- Lucius Malfoy, as told to Draco Malfoy (Age 9)_

* * *

Just before sunrise Draco listened to Hogwarts coming alive.

 _(Hogwarts is not alive.)_

Thousands of wizards and witches scattered around the world - but mostly in the UK - love Hogwarts dearly. They succumbed easily, often before their sorting. Riding in gondolas under the moonlight, stomachs knotted in excitement and dread, they'd glimpse the stonework for the first time and feel reassured by Hogwart's quiet majesty. Older students cheered their entrance, applauded their sorting, slapped their backs as they joined their future home. First Years loved everyone by the end of that feast. Soon enough they'd be disappointed, scolded, overworked, and betrayed. They'd run to class, dodging Peeves, fall asleep during lectures and get sent to detention. Reality intrudes and feelings complicate. If students had to assign an average feeling, they'd label it 'Good' but could rarely point to one person that made them feel consistently good. They felt a subconscious desire to assign the credit _somewhere_.

(Hogwarts _is_ somewhere.)

Not all students instantly loved Hogwarts. Some required another year. Most succumbed eventually, and even if they considered their years a terrible experience, they blamed people. Severus Snape - wherever he was - loved Hogwarts. If they knew of it, Muggles would adore it and become enchanted (in all senses) by its ancient splendor and bewildering secrets. Hogwarts exasperated and intrigued and intoxicated those lucky Muggles on campus. They explored a strange old world ripped from children's fables only more fantastic.

Besotted sixth years often adopted the jaded pose typical of teenagers and denied their love. (Fifth years studied and crammed and what little time for love they possessed we will not discuss). But as inevitable as winter turning to summer some new wonder grasped their imagination and shook away false ennui. The wrong hallway could lead to a month long quest. Strolling outside could turn a warm spring day into a wondrous adventure with beasts unknown, or a legend believed mythical. Romance blooms rapidly in exciting times and Hogwarts adds zest to life, after a brief visit to Madam Pomfrey.

Foreigners express shock at the attendance of Hogwarts reunions, held during Summer Solstice. Those who attend, typically as 'plus-ones,' bask in the sheer joy expressed by the returning alumni. They listen to the stories, see the camaraderie. Guests search in vain for _In Memoriam_ placards around the halls, or graveyards and mausoleums on the grounds. They wonder how Hogwarts banished almost all the ghosts. Durmstrang is more respected than beloved.

For his part, Harry Potter forgot all about Oxford once he stepped foot on Hogwarts. Oxford now reminded Harry of Geordi LaForge: talented, interesting, and a good man to have around. But you only listened to LaForge's stories out of politeness. He won't draw a crowd or get the green-skinned girl like Hogwarts did. (Harry had a complicated relationship with Spock). Potter respected the Next Generation, but classics endure.

Harry loved Hogwarts _knowing_ he loved a system, not a creature. He knew Hogwarts didn't care, wasn't alive. He never projected emotions on it, except as linguistic shorthand. Not like his classmates. One march morning Harry lectured his fellow Ravenclaws about that mistake. Afterwards, Cho Chang pointed to Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres' receding form and solemnly intoned "That, fellow students, is a Dork. It may, at times, appear to have tact. But rest assured you are just projecting it onto him. A common fallacy."

Potter hadn't even pontificated much. Anthropomorphizing Hogwarts barely registered as a fallacy: it wasn't harmful like attributing meaning to a simple text program like ELIZA or believing in Muggle psychics. His halfhearted lecture stopped well short of his typical pedantry. Hogwarts stood – except for a few floating parts – uncaring. Harry knew that, but he suspected that Hogwarts (that name being shorthand for the amazingly complex magical system designed by the Founders) _did_ help those who roamed its halls.

Why else had Salazar laid down secret paths? Surely not to trap his students. Rowena had strewn puzzles to be found and solved, not to be ignored. Godric scattered magical traps to be avoided and duels to be defeated. And it just seemed like Helga Hufflepuff's style. The Founders hid treasures behind _apparently_ fearsome obstacles that rarely did permanent damage (as wizards counted these things). They'd bequeathed Hogwarts, their glorious clockwork sanctum, a bewildering array of enchantments. And those enchantments changed. Just last summer a staircase that rose from West to East every Tuesday for as long as anyone could remember (except during New Moons, when it lilted slightly to the North-East and turned into a water slide) suddenly rotated into southerly facing trampoline and added a wading pool.

Hogwarts mutated according to some set of complex and contradictory rules that changed over the years, as the Founders intended. Hermione, in an mild debate with Harry in early August, pointed out that a system that had goals, acted on them, and evolved might not be _biologically_ active, but the word 'Alive' seemed to apply. She'd eventually left angry, pointing out that Harry Potter had finally reconciled creationism with evolution.

Harry conceded the point (but only silently, to himself) and spent his spare time coaxing secrets from these halls to unwind after the frustrations of the day and renew his sense of wonder.

Harry knows love makes people irrational.

Harry believed in Hogwarts (the system) because true learning happens outside classrooms. Experience and enthusiasm trump rote lectures and the Founders knew that. So Harry Potter believed that indifferent, dead Hogwarts existed as a complex educational system. He was hardly the first to come to that conclusion. Most Headmasters grasped this eventually. Albus PWB Dumbledore understood well before assuming that mantle. Tom Riddle knew the truth and Quirinus Quirrell based his pedagogy on that insight.

While Draco spent those pre-dawn hours reconsidering and agonizing, Minerva McGonagall started learning this lesson.

Last January a lovestruck student discovered a single passenger dirigible. It showed up on a fairly predictable schedule, provided you knew a smattering of Mermish. On those nights it appeared it drifted towards music. One admittedly precarious jump from an 8th floor window near his bed would see our fifth year Ravenclaw safely in the basket undercarriage and then whisked to a secluded parapet in the Gryffindor girl's dormitory. Over the summer he'd gathered his courage and made arrangements, pleased at his cleverness. This route avoided nosy prefects and hallways patrolled by Argus Filch (who had been hired back on over the summer, much to the chagrin of all the students).

He'd studied the patterns, perfected his whistling, and plotted the astronomical charts. He'd double checked the dates: balloon would drift by at 1am the first night of school. He'd _hadn't_ realized the tiny red zeppelin only followed its assigned course if the basket was empty.

At 2am Hagrid, out searching for a wounded Hippogriff he'd seen from time to time, noticed an Acromantula web stretched between treetops. He'd politely asked why it was there. Aragog ominously answered "Breakfast," but by then Hagrid heard the boy's cries and untangled him while fending off famished spiders with a pink umbrella.

And so, at 3am, Headmistress McGonagall lectured the unfortunate boy and assigned one weeks detention helping Hagrid, who'd agreed to repair the web in an effort to smooth over the incident.

Seeing no chance of getting any more sleep, she'd made a cup of tea while despairing about the students in her charge. The trick was to lean on the undercarriage railing, which had seemed obvious to her back in her sixth year. That propelled the balloon in the opposite direction for some reason. Her thoughts drifted while she sipped her tea, wondering what she'd ever seen in the rotund, balding, and utterly boring Undersecretary of Charms and Curses.

Draco hadn't heard that adventure, just some trees rustling that he thought was just the wind. But by five am the gentle grinding of staircases announced the start of the day, and Draco Malfoy decided he might as well get up. After getting dressed Draco slipped out the door, diary in hand, to do some research in the remaining hours before breakfast.

* * *

The first years fell silent as Draco strode into the lecture hall with Hermione and Harry Potter. They'd agreed to enter as a group after everyone was seated. Waiting looked unimpressive - unless you suddenly snapped out of a catatonic state - and they needed to signal authority. Professor Lockhart, newly appointed Head of House Gryffindor, stood behind the professor's desk next to an empty leather seat. Draco and his fellow generals walked in front of the desk. Once again Draco reflected that _he_ hadn't looked nervous on his first day of class, one long year ago.

They'd come straight from breakfast to teach the first class of the year. ("Learning how to think precedes learning what to do," Harry Potter had explained to the Headmistress, who had sighed and re-arranged the schedules several weeks ago).

"We are Generals Granger, Potter and Malfoy." Draco said, indicating each in turn and bowing slightly at his own name. The class murmured, not all of them knew some classes would be taught by students. Many pointed at Hermione and whispered. Colin Creevey was pointing to Hermione and gesturing, but the nearby students ignored him. A few less pointed to Harry Potter and barely anyone talked about Draco.

"No talking!" said Lockhart to immediate effect. Draco continued, while Potter surreptitiously reviewed his notes.

"Welcome to the Hogwarts, and welcome to class. For centuries, until last year, this class was known as 'Defence Against the Dark Arts.' An appropriate name, although for years our instructors only _pretended_ to teach that subject. Last year's Defence Professor, Quirinus Quirrell, actually taught us. We learned, as you will learn, how to defend ourselves. Professor Quirrell sat in that chair behind me slowly dying with an illness. Outside of classes he could barely move. But he taught vigorously and he taught us well."

Professor Lockhart nodded approvingly.

Hermione continued "Professor Quirrell, also known as David Monroe, named the class and the lessons he covered 'Battle Magic.' He broke tradition in many ways, adding the armies we Generals led as a new feature. He taught us how to fight. He taught us how to win. I can't describe how much I learned and how much fun I had. Today, you get the chance. I suggest you sign up for the first year armies."

Hermione cocked her head and continued, "Because without Professor Quirrell's training, I stood no chance against the troll that killed me."

Lockhart made no attempt to silence the class this time.

Harry Potter spoke over them. "Professor Quirrell taught us that trolls are the third most perfect killing machine in nature. General Granger would have defeated the troll but what she didn't know - what nobody knew - is that she was actually fighting the most perfect killing machine of a generation. _Voldemort_ sent the troll."

Some students gasped at the name. Harry had started shakily, but he'd gotten the rhythm and had the full attention of the class.

" _Voldemort_ sabotaged her weapons. Hermione Granger would have escaped, except for Voldemort's interference. She had learned enough to survive a mere troll."

Draco continued without pause.

"General Potter killed the troll. Later Professor Quirrell, despite being near death, fought Voldemort to a standstill. General Ganger's aid was enough to tip the balance and defeat him."

It was Hermione's turn.

"Make no mistake. You won't know enough to defeat an adult Dark Wizard this year. I didn't. Even weakened, Voldemort killed dozens of wizards. Dark wizards are _dangerous_ , and it takes decades to achieve enough power to match them. Few do. I took advantage of lucky circumstances in that Battle. Voldemort's ritual weakened him, Professor Monroe's attack wounded him further, and I caught him by surprise."

Harry Potter continued. "You could say she got lucky. But plenty of people have opportunities. It's not sufficient to _be_ lucky. You need to _seize_ your luck, _recognize_ it and act. The best way to win a battle, to win decisively, is overwhelming force. Unless you are a powerful Wizard or Witch, you won't have it. If you are weaker, the easiest way to win is to take the initiative and do the unexpected."

He nodded to Draco, who hid his annoyance. Draco Malfoy did not forget lines or miss his cue.

"Professor Quirrell was the greatest Slytherin of our generation. We honour his sacrifice. His empty chair sits watching over future classes. He didn't respect tradition but I think he'd approve this one. He'd approve students teaching each other in the lecture halls, just as we taught ourselves on the battlefield."

"Welcome," said Hermione Granger, "to your first lecture in 'Offense Against the Dark Arts.'"

"Take out your wands. Our first spell is _Mahasu,_ " said Harry Potter as the globes descended from the ceiling.

* * *

The first years chatted excitedly as they poured out of the lecture Hall. Professor Lockhart returned from the back room and greeted the trio. "Well done, excellent poise and an important lesson. I know I hadn't learned those skills until I had been out of school at least a decade. I worry my lecture will seem dull," he said, flashing them all a smile.

2nd year Defence classes had posed a problem. Last year Professor Quirrell had effectively taught first year classes to each grade. The older students hadn't needed targeting spells to gain confidence; older students cast more powerful spells than even Draco knew, but they'd spent years thinking of Defence Class in a totally different way. So Professor Quirrell covered many of the same lessons for each year. He hadn't done the _exact_ same lectures, in the exact same order. Part of his special talent involved grasping the mood of a room, understanding where he stood, and what his young apprentices did (or, more typically, did not) understand, and explaining.

Draco envied that talent.

In reviewing Professor Quirrell's notes the Generals discovered that even N.E.W.T. classes had started from roughly the same position as they had. Older students had progressed faster since the Professor wasted less time teaching spells. But he'd lost time helping them unlearn bad habits picked up from prior teachers. In some ways, Dragon, Chaos and Sunshine armies had demonstrated Quirrell's pedagogy best. Which left the question – _How to follow up_? All Generals across the years had roughly the same grasp of strategy. If Percy Weasley's army fought Diggory's the elder students would have an advantage, but that was just the natural consequence of magic increasing with age. Why should 3rd years respect a 4th year lecturer, when they knew the same thing? In under a decade the problem would solve itself but right now there was effectively one first year class and six second year classes.

An authority figure seemed necessary, at least to get things started.

Draco sat in the same seat he'd used last year. Gregory sat down next to him as other students arrived. People gravitated to the seats they'd used last year but the resorting made for some awkward situations. Harry sat in Vincent's old seat.

"I thought you skipped ahead," Gregory asked, leaning across Draco to whisper conspiratorially.

"I'm curious. I want to hear this."

Vincent sat next to Neville. The Hufflepuff group had no infighting over seats, unlike other houses.

Draco felt grateful the classes occurred in order. Being able to just wait a few minutes between lectures saved him an extra trek to and from Offense, which would have eaten into his already full schedule even more. Draco, Harry and Hermione had agreed to split teaching duties after the introductory lecture. Harry would teach Wednesday's class and figure out who the most dangerous students were. Hermione's lessons focused on mechanics, helping students learn spells.

Draco, the only Wizard-born General of the year, would lead after-action discussions and draw comparisons to prior battles (mock battles in school and historical battles) and cover the history of Battle Magic. He was also in charge of quashing inter-army fights, making sure battles didn't stray off the field. (Quirrell _hadn't_ cared about that. Unsanctioned battles occurred roughly weekly from Fall until the Abolition of the Houses and current fourth years aligned more by armies than houses. A true mess).

Professor Lockhart put his wand to his throat, said _Sonorus,_ and his voice echoed throughout the room.

(Nobody knew exactly how Professor Quirrell's small pedagogical charms worked. The giant viewing screen for watching battles was well known, but his small personal screens and audio/visual system appeared to be unique. Quirrell's notes only listed spells _taught_ , not spells _used_. Professor Flitwick had struggled over cryptic handwritten references for the entire summer. Harry Potter dropped his investigation after a week, once he considered his own sense of humor, and urged Flitwick to let the matter rest).

"Good morning. I am Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, your occasional lecturer during Offense against the Dark Arts. And I want you to know – I am a fraud." Harry sat up straight. Draco, already somewhat tired from his sleepless night, woke up fully. The class hadn't seemed bored, more wary, but now they were all listening intently.

"Why, just last night our Sorting Hat warned you not to trust someone just because they seem confident. Oh, I've achieved some items of note and minor glory. I've fought terrifying creatures. I've fought a _Krogan_ and they are dangerous, believe me. You don't want to get ambushed by a _Krogan_. But then, you don't want to get ambushed by anything."

The class laughed. Professor Lockhart shrugged.

"But I've never fought a Dark Wizard. Just pests. Your Professor rightly mocked minor pests. I suppose for a Wizard of his calibre they are all minor. Personally, I steer clear of Hungarian Horntails. For lesser wizards such as myself and dare I say you, major pests exist. I pride myself a pest control expert so I doubt Professor Quirrell would have much use for me. He'd consider me a fraud."

"Oh yes, I know of his lectures. ' _The only thing you have to fear is a Dark Wizard._ ' I suppose that's true, but I spoke to Miss Granger. That troll terrified her. Maybe you shouldn't be afraid, but that won't help you when the fear comes. And it does come, even for brave Gryffindors like myself. Or Miss Granger now, I suppose."

The Gryffindors cheered, but Professor Lockhart cut them off with a wave of his hand. Tracey Davis mock whispered "Where is she, anyway?" to Harry Potter, who shrugged. Lockhart turned to her.

"One point from Slytherin. Where was I? Ah ... _'One killing curse will bring it down.'_ A good rule, if you know the Killing Curse or any other suitable curses I'll teach. Perhaps I should have used a Killing Curse when I encountered a Geeger. It stands seven feet tall, strong enough to lift you off your feet and rip you in half. I've seen one stab its razor sharp tail clean through a man's chest, but I was lucky. _I saw it_. The Geeger is pitch black and almost impossible to spot although not technically invisible. In a darkened forest, you could pass feet from one and think it part of a tree if you noticed it at all. And they often perch in trees, or lurk in caves. Their teeth..."

He trailed off for a second, eyes distant in memory, then recovered.

"Anyway, _one killing curse will indeed bring it down_. And then it will explode, splattering those nearby with its blood. There are only a dozen uses for Dragon's Blood, but I can personally imagine hundreds of uses for Geeger blood. If only it didn't burn through anything in seconds. If you do use a Killing Curse on that nasty beast, you must be at a safe distance. Actually, always keep your distance."

He paused and stared around the room.

"While scanning for Geegers _,_ make sure the tree itself isn't a Triffid. Easy enough to avoid, Triffids, but if you stumble onto one it may drain your blood or even bite your limbs clean off. You needn't even Apparate away from one. A few steps will suffice. It can be brought down by a single curse, even _inflammare_. No need to get fancy.

"Or consider the Iudices. This creature looks like a tall, well dressed, smiling man. They don't fly so much as float. Grinning like a hyena Iudices stalk their prey at the speed of a brisk walk. You'll need a few killing curses as they travel in packs. You'll also need to be able to cast them wordlessly, since they steal the speech of their intended victims. They' cut your heart out with a knife and cook it, while you scream without making a sound.

" _Monachiko Dolofonous_ disguise themselves as statues. They move so quickly they could cross this lecture hall in the blink of an eye. So fast you'll never see one move. They are vulnerable to killing curses. Any one of the suits of armor you pass along the hallway could have been a _Monachiko_. But which statute? How to know? An Aliquid has no true form. It assumes yours after digesting you. It speaks with the voice of the deceased and retains its victims memories. The student sitting next to you could be one, right now. They are vulnerable to practically any spell except _Diffindo_. They don't transfigure exactly like a troll, but each limb retains the ability to move and an admirably murderous instinct even when hacked apart. Even if its no match for a Dark Wizard such as himself, Professor Quirrell unjustly slighted this creature when he made his list. I'd rank Aliquids well above Dementors. You always know when a Dementor is nearby.

"A few years ago an expedition of Aurors disappeared in South America. The only survivor raved wildly that the jungle itself attacked them; one Wizard a day, killing them and then skinning them. After the second day they Apparated away. It, or something like it, tracked them down to the village they'd gone to. The villagers found the skin. I happened to be in Argentina and they kindly asked for my expertise. I knew it wasn't an Aliquid since those consume the skin, leaving no trace, and do not track victims. In fact, I could quickly deduce that it was none of the monsters I've mentioned or that you'll find in any of your textbooks.

"I declined to investigate. Some pests terrify me. So, what do I have left to teach you?"

Students shifted around. Several were still inspecting their neighbors, trying to determine if any Aliquids lurked nearby.

"I am new to public speaking and teaching, but my question was not rhetorical. _What do I have left to teach you?_ "

Draco doubted the first part. The ironic admission of fraud gave it away. Lockhart may be self taught, but he'd grabbed Draco's attention with his easy charisma and confidence. Most students looked towards Potter and Malfoy. Harry Potter smirked, folded his arms in front of himself and tightened his lips. Draco followed suit.

"Your Generals expect you to fight your own battles, this time. Well now," he pulled a looking glass out of a cape pocket and, looking through it, read off the name. 'Mr. Weasley?'"

"I dunno. All about those creatures, I guess?" Draco stifled a chuckle, and then a yawn. It had been a long night.

"That I will most definitely teach. It is my area of expertise, after all. What _general_ point was I making, Mr. Weasley? What can I teach you that Quirrell didn't?"

The red-haired boy blushed. Professor Lockhart sighed and swung the looking glass across the audience. "Miss Abbott?"

"Uh, Pests are dangerous?"

"An obvious point. One that Quirrell knew even though he minimized their danger as a teaching example. I suppose you are correct, so let me digress. 'One killing curse will bring it down.' But you didn't learn the killing curse. Your lessons from last year emphasized two things. Efficiency and intent to do violence. Reflect on my pests. A Dark Wizard may be the most dangerous creature in the world, but none of those horrors I've describe lack murderous intent. They murder Wizards and do it quite well. None cast charms, but all possess innate magic and at least a low cunning, if not actual intelligence. But that was not my lesson, just examples. As I've said, I've personally never fought a Dark Wizard."

Professor Lockhart returned the looking glass to his pocket. As Lockhart drew his hand out Draco noticed the wand and then Harry's movement startled Draco who looked over at Potter bolting and Draco woke fully up while Gregory shouted and Potter dove towards the floor behind Padma Patil and Pansy Parkinson and _only then_ did Draco dive and he glanced up and saw...

Lockhart's wand centered on him.

" _Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

Draco Malfoy hit the ground, unconscious. A second later Professor Lockhart's shields flared and sparked but easily absorbed the scattered charms fired at him. Lockhart calmly put his wand away and took out his looking glass.

"Very good. Two Quirrell points each to, let's see ... Mr. Longbottom, of course. Miss Patil. Mr. Crabbe. Miss Patil? Two of you, and in different houses? Oh, that will cause confusion. Mr. Zabini. Miss Abbott. I'm rather surprised I don't have to award you points, Mr. Potter. You had your wand out fast and dodged easily enough."

Harry Potter had, by this time, carefully stepped over the body of Draco Malfoy and returned to his seat. The entire time he kept his wand raised high, practically at the level of his eye, pointed at Professor Lockhart. He slowly lowered it to point at Draco.

" _Enervate_ "

Harry helped Draco back to his chair. "You weren't attacking us, so much as proving a point."

Professor Lockhart nodded. "You withheld fire on gut instinct? Professor Quirrell would not approve. But I do. At least, when I am the target. Mr. Potter gets two points for grasping the point I clearly failed to teach. And I owe Mr. Malfoy an opportunity. He would have undoubtedly fired if I had shot anyone else. Just a touch slow, but better than his defenders. Mr. Malfoy, what do I have left to teach you?"

Draco had been rubbing the small bump on his forehead that threatened to grow, and had amplified the ringing in his head.

"How to recognize when we are in a fight."

Professor Lockhart nodded and turned to the rest of the class, after one last glance at Harry Potter.

"Five points for being correct and as way of apology. Last year you fought at a set time and place, when a bell sounded. You fought well but in my personal experience wizards rarely announce their intent to attack. Creatures never line up for battle. Pests do sometimes sound a bell ... to those who know what to listen for. You must learn to recognize when you are in danger. For magical beasts, learn the signs. It's easy spotting murderous intent one second too late. So recognize the early signs. Professor Quirrell knew this. But he only had so much time. It's a complicated subject."

"Some final points. The reason I declined to investigate that creature in South America was that it clearly had murderous intent and I had no earthly idea what I was dealing with. If I had investigated, maybe I would have discovered what it was, but I feared I would find myself in Mr. Malfoy's position. Remember that. I will also award several points to any students who put forth a plausible theory by next lecture and if I think you are actually right...well, I don't expect that to happen but I will try to think of a fitting reward."

Normally students would be packing, once a Professor started summing up. Some had taken out scrolls and scribbled down quick notes.

"Dark Wizards are rare, subtle ones practically mythical. Be thankful. Imagine if Voldemort could have held his temper in check or Grindenwald hadn't openly plunged the world into war? Pests hide when they feel vulnerable or to sneak up on you. If you know what you face, the danger diminishes. Just like Dark Wizards.

"Finally, in the future I will deduct one Quirrell point from anyone laughing about ambushes. Now, let us turn our attention to the variety of shield spells..."

* * *

Author's Note - An early post, since I have finished this and got a few other draft chapters done this weekend. I realized later that I could have posted this in three small chunks relatively easily. It would take me equally long to write this but would people rather see 3 small updates or a big one (assuming the final update took place on the same day?) Let me know.

Next update - Early next week I have some travel between now and then, but I believe I will be able to change back to a more aggressive schedule soon enough (except that I have further travel this summer).

I would be remiss if I didn't credit Ginny Weasley and the Sealed Intelligence for making me believe that G.L. could be an interesting character. (I have not in fact finished it, although I did get as far as the first defence lecture before I decided to greatly reduce my reading of HPMOR fan fiction).

I also now remember that Draco had a private room in the original work (HPMOR Ch 98). Oh well. I'm sticking with my version.


	11. Defence and Offence, Part 2

_Asking someone for a favor can form a powerful bond._

 _\- Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

Draco slept through lunch and the first half of History of Magic. Cutting class was a non-problem, students routinely answered roll call for each other. As long as you didn't say 'present' twice in a row, Professor Binns never noticed. Given his full load Draco had already considered ditching History of Magic anyway for the full year. Draco respected history and its lessons; but, Binns was worthless. He could probably pass all the final right now and use the extra time to study Runes. He didn't need to waste hours each week listening to Binns drone on and on about Goblin Revolutions. He could sleep, like the other students, but it wasn't nearly as comfortable as his bed.

(Only Binns could make Goblin Revolutions _boring_. History tutoring started even before magical tutoring at Malfoy mansion. Draco's bedtime stories, like all great fables, taught lessons.)

Stretching awake, Draco pulled out his schedule.

 _3pm – Intermediate Muggle Studies (All Houses). Professor Asimov. (New Annex)._

Draco blinked. Intermediate? He hadn't signed up for intermediate. Had Harry adjusted his schedule? He'd asked Harry, on the train, about tutoring. Draco walked through the dungeons, navigating automatically. Left - past the picture of Mad Witch Matilda - laughing as she burned in a bonfire. She'd enjoyed it so much Muggles 'caught' her dozens of times in the 1500s. Up the Squeaking Stairs, air no longer cool as Draco arrived in the main levels. He headed for the Great Hall, taking the long way instead of risking a shortcut. Headmistress had told them directions to the Annex, from the Great Hall.

The schedule allowed plenty of time between classes, especially for the first week of school as students discovered changes over the summer. Walls stood in the middle of hallways, pits and spring-loaded traps would launch you onto a balcony. Last December a shimmering gateway - a bright orange oval - had appeared in the wall underneath Mad Matilda. Anyone stepping into it would step out of another gate, identical to the first but blue, a mere minute from Potions. Slytherins grumbled bitterly when it disappeared a few days later, it had cut out a good ten minutes of walking. Each way.

Draco came to the Great Hallway and walked down the new set of short, black stairs, wide enough for only a single person. Fortunately a second set crossed over the first, enchanted so that students could only go up. The grooves on each stair, coupled with the graceful curve of the vertical side reminded students of the the black Elbonian ridgeback dragon, and the name had stuck.

Draco stepped off the Ridgeback and turned left, hearing the matching giggles. He pulled out his wand and quickly aimed it at Flora and Hestia Carrow. Hestia, straight hair in a ponytail, square glasses that actually looked quite fetching, served in Diggory's army last year but Flora had finished her O.W.L.S. He aimed at Hestia on instinct and stepped back, to get some distance.

"Do we scare you, Malfoy?" Flora swished her wand with a flick of the wrist left right left right making little _tsk tsk_ cutting noises in the air. All the Carrow girls were short, but she stood taller than Draco, probably would for the full year. Hestia's wand never wavered off him.

Draco breathed deeply while speaking. "No, although I wonder where your sister has wandered off to. A falling out?" Draco's eyes never left Flora, but he shifted his head slightly to adjust his peripheral vision. Draco didn't see anyone else. He'd been early, but other students should be following in a few minutes.

"Going to study the ikky Muggles, Drakey?" That would sound silly if Flora said it, Hestia pulled it off.

"No, I'm just _Steleus!_ " Draco shouted the hex out and threw himself to the right to avoid Flora's _stupefy,_ cast almost at the same time. Hestia handily blocked his curse but Flora doubled over sneezing. Hestia's _Stupefy_ went wide and Draco _flipendo_ 'd Flora to the ground, going for the easy hit and removing her from the fight before she recovered. Flora tumbled backwards, still sneezing and Draco ran left (so his right hand wasn't blocked by his own torso). He blocked Hestia's drill breaking hex and tried his own _Expelliarmus_ when he heard a screeched _Ventus Tria._ Draco dived for the floor as the jet of wind rushed over his back, but still got thrown sideways by the blast. He hit the ground rolling, hard slippery cobblestones digging into his shoulder blades and the world was upside-down when he spotted Sheila, the cow. Draco kept rolling then slapped the ground with his left arm to stop, his right arm pointed back

" _Tarantallegra!"_

Draco didn't wait, waiting got you hit, he'd already shoved both arms under him and he was scrabbling forward, crawling as he climbed into a run. Sheila went down in a tangled mass of her own two legs, but Hestia was behind him. Draco juked and heard several jinxes but didn't see anything. He glanced over his shoulder and she was aiming and shouting. Just shouting, not actually casting. Waiting for a good shot. Draco spun around, stumbling, and fired off a _Maledictonum,_ which just caused stuttering and twitching and was more prank than hex, since it only affected normal speech and not spells. But it _sounded_ dangerous and he'd won three fights by firing off random spells and having his targets dodge wildly in fear. Last November, Hannah Abbot jumped into the lake to avoid Draco's magical hair grooming. Hestia stood her ground, either recognizing the spell or seeing that he'd fire wide, and her carefully aimed _Colloshoo_ hit Draco squarely in the chest. With his feet stuck to the ground Draco's momentum bent him awkwardly the waist and he felt the blinding light as his head impacted the cobblestone.

Then darkness.

* * *

" _Ennervate!"_

Anxious faces looked down at Draco. Students milled past them, peered in, giggling, gasping, laughing and shouting. A hand was reaching down to help him up and Draco focused on it, grabbed it. As he started to pull himself up he realized he'd been kicked hard in the sides and pain shot through him. He couldn't pull himself up and the hand easily pulled him to his feet, steadied him, and Draco finally looked at the face.

"Thank you, Robert," Draco gasped. His left knee almost gave out and Susan Bones slipped herself into his side as Robert cast more spells.

" _Episkey_. You still look terrible," Robert said. "Your face is worse. You should go see Pomfrey."

"I'll be fine. I've already missed one class today." Draco looked around and saw that, apart from Robert Jugson, the huddle had been Susan, Padma, Neville and a particularly worried Vincent. Draco cocked his head. Vincent understood, but the throbbing pain Draco felt made him think it would have been better to ask.

"They were kicking you pretty hard," said Vincent, "something might be broken. We were heading back from Muggle Studies but they ran off once Robert saw them." Vincent didn't need state the obvious, Gregory had chased after them, to confirm who was involved and enact any retribution.

"It was the Carrows."

"I saw at least four people around you, but only one kicking." said Padma. There was disagreement, Neville thought it was just three. Robert offered that Shelia had gotten a few boots in. Draco put a bit of weight on his knee. He could walk, gingerly. Vincent latched on to the side opposite Susan.

"Thanks for getting them off me. That could have turned ugly." The general opinion was that it had gotten ugly. Robert mumbled a goodbye and walked off. By now there wasn't much of a crowd going past out of class, but a small trickle of older students were descending the Ridgeback while Draco, supported by Susan and Vincent, made the slow walk down the hall. Draco fumbled for his wand and pointed it to his sides and mumbled _Te Manawa._ The pain eased. Draco shifted the wand towards his face and cast _Tango Karawarawa._ He didn't have a mirror so he cast it again until Vincent nodded.

Malfoys collected spells that improved your appearance.

After being lowered (gently) into a seat in the back row Draco numbed his knee, which he hadn't dare do while walking. A few other glamours improved his appearance and fixed his clothing. Most students would hear the gossip, but at least Draco didn't _look_ like someone who lost a fight.

The Professor spoke into a device that apparently functioned like a _Sonorus_ spell. He also had sheets of paper.

"Good afternoon, class. I am Professor Asimov. As you may know, I've recently been hired to teach at Hogwarts. Forgive me for not knowing your names, although I have a class list here with pictures. Since I am a squib, I ask that you keep your actual appearance and not take this opportunity to prank the new teacher. We will focus on Muggle society trends instead of simple facts. However, since your prior classes were hogwash I'll summarize the facts, at least for the English Speaking Muggle world. As we progress I'll be interested to hear what topics you'd like to cover, and we will move towards a dialogue. Today's topic will be a brief history of the Industrial Revolution, and the impact on the Muggle beliefs in magic..."

At the end of the lecture Draco waited for the room to clear before removing the anesthetic spell on his knee. He used the chair's hand-rests to push himself up, then extended his left leg to the ground. It held.

"Why don't you use magical healing?" Professor Asimov, walking down the aisle towards Draco.

"Healing spells require raw power. I'll have to be older before I have it. They don't even start theory for a few years." Draco started out the door and the Professor walked with him.

"You are younger than your classmates, but not a Muggle born, so why are you in my class … Draco?" The professor had rifled through the sheets and found a picture of Draco. He'd done that several times to call on students during the class.

"I figured you'd know, sir." Draco moved slower than strictly necessary, but it made his walk seem less like a hobble.

"The Headmistress didn't say, and you needn't be so formal, Draco."

"Of course. Although if you don't mind some advice, you are too _informal_ in lectures. You should stick to Mister So-and-so and Miss whoever." Draco paused and thought. "Now that I think about it, I'm not sure if that's a national difference or a Muggle/Wizarding difference. Is there a word for that?"

"Not that I'm aware of. My apologies, then Mr. Malfoy."

"None required, as I knew it was an innocent mistake. But some students don't."

"And that must be why you were in my class." The Professor stopped at a small doorway. Draco realized it was a Muggle door you might see in a home, gaudily painted, two small squares inlaid, one atop the other. "This is my office. Do you have a few moments?"

Draco followed Professor Asimov in. The room was lined with shelves, books stacked a dozen high on the desk, leaving only enough free space for a manual typewriter, some paper, and several legal pads. Draco squeezed past the visitor chair to look at the closest shelf.

"You wrote all of these?" All the books said "Asimov" or "Isaac Asimov." Many titles read as gibberish but some were science books. There must be hundreds of books, all four rows were written by his Professor. Draco found a title and picked it out.

"Mostly just that bookcase. I'm afraid that book isn't what you hope, Draco." Draco put _Young Witches and Wizards_ back on the shelf and continued browsing.

"Just Muggle fiction, I'm afraid. The majority of my books are fiction, although I wrote general interest pieces on current scientific knowledge. Current for the time, I suppose." Draco spotted a picture on the back of one book's outer paper wrapper, which showed the Professor as a much older man, gray hair, skin dropping, but still the same glasses and general look. Draco judged the man in the picture to be roughly 100, firmly middle aged. He put the book back.

"So, they made you younger."

"I imagine I'd be dead in a few years if not. I'm grateful that Headmistress McGonagall offered me this position. Anyway, I wanted to ask you something, Draco."

"Of course, Professor Asimov." Draco kept browsing. His training told him to sit, he could hear his tutors screaming. But Harry Potter had clearly hand-picked this Muggle and Draco had heard _you can never have too many books_ often enough. Such a prolific author and scientific expert deserved study. Anyway, expressing interest in a Ravenclaw's writing surely exemplified politeness. Probably. For Muggles, too. Maybe.

"Are you OK? I mean, I gathered from the other students that you'd been in a fight with several older students, and given what you told me about raw magical talent...well." Isaac Asimov watched the young boy examining the books stop and consider. He stood almost straight, although his weight was obviously on one leg. He'd spoken well, partially due to how refined British English sounds to an American ear, but the boy had an aristocrat's bearing.

"I am OK, in the sense that you just offered to help and I am declining. I surely don't know how things like this are handled … outside. But you damage us both if you publicly interfere. But, I thank you for the offer, Professor Asimov." Once Draco started speaking he'd gone back to browsing books titles. They may reveal something, but he only understood a fraction of them.

"Please, call me Isaac. And I don't understand how you can let them do that, and others can stand by, it's just not natural."

At this Draco sat. "To answer your question, first of all that happened to be a reasonably fair fight. Some magic is about raw age, but not most of it. As to your other question, I'll answer, but I need to know how much you understand. What did they tell you about us and about the relationship between our worlds? About last year?"

"Well, Magic was real. I'd seen a little bit, here and there, as a child. A talking cat scolded me for almost getting run over on 5th Avenue, when I was, oh, around eight years old. I'd see a doorway nobody else could see. Things like that. So, for a while I'd believed in magic, but never found any evidence, so I just dismissed it as being young and foolish..."

Draco sighed internally. Most people, when asked a question, told a personal story instead of giving an answer. Ninety percent of politics involved feigning interest and Draco kept nodding. But to listen to someone who'd written literal bookshelves of relevant knowledge spout on ….

("That must have been hard on you," said Draco) ...was particularly frustrating.

"I don't know, my experience nourished my sense of wonder, made me question those around me. It may have kept me from following those foolish beliefs that captured so many of my friends, although my father helped. They didn't believe my stories, why should I believe theirs? And I see those like me, squibs, born into your world and they seem bitter. Better to glimpse these visions than stare at them too long. You don't risk staring at the sun, not before you have the right tools. Fortunately we only have one, not six."

"What?" Draco didn't know exactly what would happen if more suns appeared in the sky. Maybe you could deal with a second. OK, but hot. More sounded dangerous, especially if there was a water failure, and there would probably be a panic...

"Sorry. Just a phrase. Anyway, I was shocked to find out I hadn't been imagining it. They offered youth and health for teaching, and of course I jumped. Even without that I'd have done it, just to learn. I know about the Statute of Secrecy, of course. I'm sworn to keep that. Not that I'll be allowed to leave the campus for several years, until things get settled."

"You aren't being coerced? Did you actually swear to any spell? Or just give your word?" Draco asked.

"I haven't had any magic done to me, apart from the healing." Professor Asimov seemed confident.

 _Not that you know. But even a Muggle would recognize an Unbreakable Vow as magic._

"And how we view your world?" Draco asked.

"I know that most of you don't really give it much thought, but those who do don't think well of us."

"As you said: facts first, then implications. So, the facts. They told you the polite version. For the other houses you basically don't exist, or are maybe some exotic rarity. For my house, Slytherins, Muggles are sub-humans, not even worthy of pity. How Muggles might treat people of different colour a century ago, as Harry Potter explained it to me."

Professor Asimov interrupted, "Harry who?" Draco didn't pause, but just filed the information away. _Either Harry is busy, or worried about some appearance of impropriety._ He'd think about it later.

"Oh, just my room-mate. Raised by Muggles. I haven't examined his books closely but I _suspect_ he owns several of your books. I'm surprised he hasn't asked to talk to you. But anyway, you heard about last year? About the murders? Yes, then the fallout also affected Slytherin. Most victims and Voldemort, the murderer, were Slytherins. Voldemort preached hatred of Muggles. He's dead, but still has followers."

"So … this is not simple bullying then."

"No. I insist you do not get involved, for your own safety. I know it must sound odd, to hear this from a child." Draco looked abashed, but sounded firm. "But I suspect you'd get the same advice from the Headmistress or teachers. Stick to teaching your lessons, and learning about us. Let the situation cool. Even your presence is provocation enough, to some. I got ambushed by three witches because they fear me. They fear what you represent, but they don't fear _you_ personally. I suspect that's why you can't leave Hogwart's. The wards aren't perfect, but if you wandered without protection..."

"Thank you for the advice, Mr. Malfoy." Professor Asimov sounded unconvinced, but solemn.

"Of course, Professor ... Isaac. If you don't mind, I'd like to continue these chats. I believe we can both learn quite a lot. I know that I have so many questions."

* * *

 **Author's Note** – When I came up with DMPOR and added a Muggle professor of Muggle Studies, I decided to only consider people listed on the Wikipedia Category "Muggles who Died in 1992." I kept looking after I saw Isaac Asimov's name (it felt silly to give up without even finishing the As) but he really is the perfect choice and after I got halfway through the alphabet I finally admitted it.

According to Muggle History he died in April of 1992, which is prior to Harry getting the stone. This is not important to the plot, but it's a nit I choose to ignore.

It has also been pointed out that Gilderoy was a Ravenclaw in canon. Yeah, that's another divergence. So, when I say I'm trying not to diverge from HPMOR, I'm not trying hard, especially on little details. (I am not diverging from Multiple-Hypothesis Testing, at least I don't think so, but I'll let that speak for itself.)

Update #2 - It has been pointed out that Matilda is just Wendelin the Weird, whom I probably vaguely remembered. Oh well.


	12. Defence and Offence, Part 3

_"A fact your enemy does not know is a handful of Galleons. A fact your enemy knows incorrectly is a treasure beyond price."_

 _\- Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

Draco got up gingerly from the table, dinner unfinished.

"Aren't you hungry?" asked Gregory. When Draco shook his head, Gregory grabbed the roll off of Draco's plate. At least this year Draco wouldn't have to listen to Crabbe ranting about the caloric injustice that was the Goyle metabolism. Gregory ate just as much, more perhaps, as Vincent and never gained an ounce of fat, so Vincent had a point. But it had been made, stated, reiterated, made unfunny and then funny again, and general discussed from all angles. No point complaining about the unfairness of life.

They made their way back to the Dungeons, but Draco passed their room, went through the Commons, and continued down another flight of stairs. In the common room fifth years sat, writing out scrolls and pouring over text books, already studying for their O.W.L.S. The left most entrance led to the upper year boys dorm, and Draco started that way as Gregory pulled up beside him, coughing slightly in place of a question.

"Robert," Draco explained. Gregory fell back. Draco went up the stairs and poked his head into the main room, glancing around, and saw Robert sitting on his bed talking to his brother Ethan. Draco cleared his throat. Ethan saw Draco first. His face dropped slightly, shock then annoyance followed by masked indifference. Draco hadn't set foot in the room, not really, he'd just poked his head in. Robert frowned, but got up and came over.

"What is it, Malfoy?" he asked.

"I just wanted to thank you, again. After last night, I didn't know what to expect. I shouldn't have done that, brought you up in the duel. I'm sorry."

"You're right. You shouldn't have."

Draco stood in the doorway, waiting. For once he didn't bother trying to hide the awkwardness he felt. In some cases, appearing awkward helped.

"Well, what? Spit it out."

"I wanted to ask you a favor, but I don't want to impose. Sorry, never mind." Draco started to leave.

"What makes you think I'd do you a favor?"

"My mistake. I'll go." Draco turned and went up the stairs, not looking behind him. Thankfully you ascended as you exited the Dungeons (or went from the main area back to Draco's room). He trusted his footing more, more going up. Going downstairs on a bad leg felt treacherous.

"What was that all about?" Gregory asked when they got back to their room. "This makes no sense."

"I was curious, _why did Robert help me_? There are lots of ways to go about making a friend. Giving a gift, sharing a secret. Getting someone to do you a favor works fairly well too. And if the favor actually winds up helping us both. I think Robert's an ally, or at least on the fence. But he feels, I don't know, honour bound to appear indifferent. I can work with that. Besides, sometimes ideas take time, and now I've planted the idea that I'm thankful and want to ask a favor. Although ... Now that I think about it, we should practice. I don't actually know if I can do this, yet."

"Do what?"

"Teach the _Patronus_ charm. All right, let's see if you can learn it. I think the mechanics are easy enough, but you just have to believe," Draco said, holding his hands up defensively. "Yes, I know, it sounds like something out of that children's fable about the dog made out of paper."

* * *

Harry Potter walked into his room and then did a double take. "An owl. Huh. I like it, elegant." He closed the door behind him. Gregory's Patronus sat on the window ledge, looking out over the dusk.

"How did you know, Potter?" Gregory asked. "How did you know we could do this when we didn't. I mean, I don't think any of my dad's classmates did, ever heard of..."

"Sometimes it takes an outsider's perspective. And sometimes it's tricky. Did you ever, I don't know, look at clouds and spot shapes? Yes, well, that's harmless. It's what we're good at, finding patterns. And sometimes we get strange beliefs in them. Take Basketball, its like … Muggle Quidditch. No flying, but you throw a ball into a hoop. There are more goals, each team may make 40-60 goals a game. Well, many of the best players believe that once a player makes a few goals, he gets 'hot' and is more likely to make his next goal."

"But it turns out that they've studied it. And a player who has just made 3 free throws – a shot from a fixed point - is no more or less likely to make their next free throw. But all the players believe it. And, the belief got passed down. Players retire, they become coaches, they talk to their player's about the hot hand. But the statistics don't bear it out. Anyway, at some point, maybe one year of Slytherins couldn't learn it, or had a teacher who didn't think Slytherins could, so didn't bother teaching it, and then everyone started believing it."

"So what made you think we could?" asked Draco.

"It just seemed … highly unlikely that there were be a significant distinction between the houses on this ability. Clearly there are some forms of magic that depend on the caster's mental state, but happiness? Slytherins can be happy."

"Apparently so." Gregory walked over to his _Patronus_ , whispered to it, and it flew off into the night.

"That's the kind of stuff Harry is teaching. I mean, apart from practical things, but how to think."

Harry watched Draco pick up his cane, that had once belonged to Lucius Malfoy. Draco was idly flipping it, first catching it by the snake handle, then by the toe. It seemed irreverent, to be almost playing catch with the walking stick. Harry remembered his meeting on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters with Lucius, how the sudden crack of the stick against platform removed the two of them into the pale haze, isolated from the rest of the world.

 _What else could that cane do?_ Harry thought.

"So why so secretive about it?" asked Gregory.

"Well, losing a cherished belief takes a toll. It's hard, admitting you were wrong," said Harry. Draco flipped the cane, then swung it in front of him like a baseball bat, or sword. He flipped it again, swung it again, snake handle gleaming as it arced through the air in front of him. "I suppose Draco filled you in about the experiments on magical potency and blood? He didn't take that well."

 _Flip, swing._

"You aren't seriously going to use that in a fight, are you?"

Draco paused, mid swing.

"I wasn't planning on using it _comically_. Or ironically. And so you _do_ hear gossip, Harry, wherever it is you disappear to all day. Good to know. No, I'm not planning on using my Sigil in some random fight. But if things get out of hand, well. Who always says 'be prepared?' Actually, you sing it. Which is annoying, you know." Draco set the cane back down on top of his desk.

"He's one of those singers?" said Gregory, sarcastically. "And you didn't think to mention that yesterday?"

"What else does that do, anyway?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. It's one of those mysteries I have to unlock. According to legend it can do just about anything but I think we Malfoys invented those stories up ourselves just to keep everyone guessing. I haven't seen it do much more than make you disappear with Father. But it's been in the family forever."

"Can I?" asked Harry, holding out his hand. Gregory stiffened for a moment.

Draco glanced up. "I don't see why not." He picked up the cane and handed it across to Harry, who took it an inspected it. "But I'd advise against picking it up when I'm not around. Just in case some of those stories happen to be true."

Harry hadn't known what to expect. The cane clearly possessed power. He'd seen it last January. Harry's first thought - a thought he'd never been able to do anything about since he could hardly experiment on Lucius Malfoy's cane - was that the cane worked like a wand. After all, where was it written that you had to use a _small_ piece of wood to use magic? Why not a four-foot long branch? But the Malfoy Sigil, as Draco had called it, didn't feel like a wand. It lacked the responsiveness of a wand, that small tingling sensation that Harry associated with defying physics, like licking a battery. But while Harry didn't feel the magic, he felt an emotion when he touched the cane, just as he felt when he first grasped the Elder Wand. But while the Elder Wand's presence cried out like a cascade of trumpets calling to glory, like the purity of righteous aggression, this cane's presence reminded Harry of an elegy. A quiet minor key, slightly out of tune. _Was the cane mourning?_ The thought came to Harry unbidden.

He handed it back to Draco. "Thanks. Just curious."

"You can take the Ravenclaw out of the library..." said Gregory with a laugh, then turned to the window as his _Patronus_ landed on the ledge.

* * *

The next day, as Harry sat poring over a few books he'd pulled from the Library shelves, he felt Hermione's hair brush past his shoulder as she bent down over him. He sat back with a jump, narrowly missing Hermione's chin with his head.

"You should cough, or something," Harry said. "You _know_ you don't make much noise when you move. It's unnerving."

Hermione had actually forgotten about that, hadn't yet fully internalized all of her differences of her transformation. She knew she moved gracefully and quietly on an intellectual level, but she didn't _feel_ any different than before. Still, she didn't apologize. Hermione and Harry had taken to playing a game where they never actually conceded they were wrong unless it was about something important. She'd been hoping to catch him reading _Hogwarts: A History,_ since she was sure he'd actually read it. Well, not sure, but more probable than not. Harry knew too much. So she quietly stalked him whenever he disappeared with a book or to the library.

(Harry, of course, only read that particular book when hidden inside his trunk).

"Mm-hmm. What are you doing," Hermione asked innocently, "Studying History?"

"Research. Did you ever read any stories about that cane of Draco's?"

On the other side of the Library, Draco sat writing notes in his journal.

 _Urgent - The fight for Slytherin. Yesterday has shown this issue is more pressing than I'd feared._

 _Important, but not immediately urgent- Investigating Harry's relationship with Voldemort._

* * *

 **Author's Note** – Harry read about The Hot-Hand effect based on research published prior to 1991. For example, see Gilovich, et al. " _How we know what isn't so: The Fallibility of Human Reason in Everyday Life_ " for details. Recent studies - using the more detailed shot tracking metrics in the NBA, which record exactly where shots are made from and how far away defenders are - have reopened the issue. Players with a Hot Hand don't necessarily have a better percentage on their next shots but _they take more difficult shots_ (as they gain confidence, or attract more defenders). And their percentage doesn't go down noticeably when taking these more difficult shots. (Other studies just looking at free throws also throw the original research into question).

So, it could be argued that they are, in fact, outperforming expectation. The data from earlier studies showed no effect, the current data implies it. Science marches on.

Of course, this research will not occur until 20 years after HJPEV makes this speech, so Harry is right according to the science of the time. I include the Hot Hand discussion because it was, 25 years ago, a good example of non-scientific experts believing something that scientists could "refute" (with the data at hand) but it turns out that the _unscientific belief had something going for it_ , was not obviously wrong, and may in fact be true.

Skeptics - Be aware that its not just the unscientific who are sometimes smugly wrong. Be doubly aware when criticizing domain expertise in a highly competitive, high-stakes field where people are usually searching for an edge, however small.


	13. Bold Thinking, Part 1

_"Foolish people work hard to appear happy. Work hard to be happy." - Lucius Malfoy  
_

* * *

The howler arrived early, well before breakfast. It didn't arrive in the Great Hall, of course. Draco had heard Tanaxu's arrival and groggily opened his eyes in time to see the letter, growing red and about to burst. Draco managed to grab the letter and dive into Harry's trunk before it exploded. Harry slept through it, of course, his Quietus slider was always set to high when he slept. Draco preferred to be able to hear his surroundings, even if that disturbed his sleep from time to time. Still, Gregory only caught a few words, which meant that the rest of Slytherin probably hadn't.

Now, heart pounding, Draco sat at his desk writing.

 _Mother,_

 _We are family, and if not as close as we should be, still I do not wish to plot against you._

 _I share your concerns about our future, but money sitting in a vault acts as a general's reserve, and like a reserve it must be used at the proper time. I will cease spending "extravagantly" if you aid my search for Severus Snape and assist my investigations. Father swore Snape joined Voldemort, yet he survives. Besides, I fear you are moping. I know it is not my place, but it would serve you well to get out of the house._

 _Please, for his memory and our future, assist me._

 _PS What do you know of my Professors? Which may be allies?_

* * *

"Well, Don't ogres make soup out of people's bones? That would explain the skinning," said Vincent.

Offense started in thirty minutes and most of the class were still brainstorming theories.

Neville shook his head. "I don't think Ogres sneak up on people like that. If they attacked, everyone would know. I'm thinking it's a Tystnaden."

"Hm. That might work," said Hermione. She still stayed in the regular girl's dorm and Lavander Brown had instantly sought out the most famous Gryffindor's advice, since everyone knew that Hermione had read _literally dozens_ of books. Hermione, intrigued, had spent several days reading through the library to see if she could solve this mystery. Seeing that nobody apart from Neville knew what they were discussing, she explained. "The Tystnaded is a creature that obliviates anyone who sees them. So, you see, it may have actually stumbled on the whole group, killed one of them, and then the rest of them forgot."

"Ooh, what do they look like?" said Colin Creevey. He'd attached himself to the group as had several other students. Any spotting of Hermione Granger _and_ Harry Potter drew a crowd, these days.

"Well, obviously nobody knows," sniffed Hermione. She was used to the crowds, but the fact that the first year kept following her around made her wary. Still, she'd gotten used to it enough that she didn't put as much bite into her words as most girls would have.

"They sound dangerous. Tricky," said Harry. He'd also been attracted to the problem but hadn't had nearly as much free time and hadn't even heard of a Tystnaden until now. "If _only_ the people who see them get obliviated, then would probably want to avoid crowds. Others would see the first people getting confused, they'd get wary. Maybe start casting area-effect hexes. If _I_ were a Tystnaden I don't think I'd attack crowds. I'd pick off lone individuals. But the creature did that, or they think it did. So why would the Aurors separate?" Harry looked visibly shaken and spent several hours over the next day planning how to defeat a Tystnaden. The first trick was to recognize you'd been obliviated, and it would help to precommit to what kind of message you'd leave yourself...

The conversation continued while the first years poured out of the lecture hall and Luna Lovegood, hearing strange and possibly mythical creatures named by several students, chimed in. "It's a Yautja," she said, in an air less distracted than she usually used.

"I've never heard of that," said Draco, who had followed behind her.

"Of course," said Luna sweetly. "They are invisible hunters who only attack the strongest victims. Like Aurors, or adventurers. It's their rite of passage."

"That _does_ kind of fit," said Neville.

"So why aren't more people killed by them," asked Hermione. "I mean, if every one of these creatures has to do this?"

"Oh, they rarely hunt on Earth," said Luna. "It's too far away."

Several students laughed and Harry Potter just snorted while the discussion turned to reasonable options.

* * *

In Peverell Hospital, Draco walked around examining security when someone called his name.

"So," said one of the Weasley twins, "he's got you doing it too. Any ideas?" The other one was quickly rolling up a scroll of some sort. Draco thought he saw a map, which made sense. He was still getting a feel for the layout. Security seemed impossibly tight, with Aurors guarding entrances and confiscating anything useful (although they'd let him keep a quill and his journal, to take notes). Draco glanced from one to the other.

"Twins raises a possibility. Have you considered using the two of you, one disguised as someone else? Then removing it for the confusion aspect?"

"Thief's Downfall." They said together. Then they started alternating phrases. "And please / we're experts / First thing we / thought of. We've racked our brains / trying to take advantage / it's hard to see something." One shrugged, slightly ahead of the other turning around. The Aurors watched them carefully. Draco had shown a note from Harry to allow him in (searched, but he could get the benefit of a doubt to bring in items that might normally be confiscated).

"I assume there's an anti-Apparition jinx?"

"Of course," said Fred, or maybe George. A trio of Aurors started to move a patient from his bed into the Healing Room, and Draco heard the splash of the Thief's Downfall.

Draco asked "Do we know if that blocks non-Wizards?"

"Well, I'm not sure," said George or maybe Fred.

They exchanged a look and Fred, Fred?, continued. "We tried to summon the Sorting Hat but it doesn't answer us most of the time."

George, George?, shrugged. "I think it knows when we're _actually_ desperate and testing doesn't count."

"I was actually thinking more of House Elves," Draco said. One of the twins raised an eyebrow and they all huddled together to discuss possible solutions.

* * *

In the dungeons _near_ Slytherin.

Harry Potter realized, now that he lived there, that this unused classroom lit with eerie green light didn't belong to the Slytherin dungeons proper. Draco had never let him into the Syltherin Dungeons, the rest of the Slytherins referred to this as the "public" dungeon.

Which made it still convenient to teach lessons to the expanded Bayesian Conspiracy. Draco invited the Silvery Slytherins, so that added Daphne Greengrass and Gregory. (Draco tried to not think of her as Daphne _of_ Greengrass, because he might slip and say it. A Malfoy never insults _by accident_ ). Harry Potter had invited Hermione and Neville, for now. For the first two weeks lessons covered material Draco already knew. He'd co-taught, provided examples, translated Muggle concepts into Wizarding terms. But now Draco found himself lost with the rest of the non-Harry Potters.

They'd gotten diverted when Draco stated that the methods didn't help during a fight.

"What do you mean, of course they do" said Harry.

"I'm being imprecise," Draco admitted. "They help at times during a battle, but during lulls. I'm not saying that they are useless. Just limited during an actual battle. Once the spells are flying you don't have time for this."

"The techniques are useful for decision making, and you make decisions all the time during battle."

Draco just cocked his head in question.

"You kind of don't," said Neville. "I mean, you are flying around with Chaotic Leaps, kicking, punching, casting spells, dodging. We spend a lot of time _preparing_ , but during the battle itself we just kind of re-act. I mean, if you imagine a battle where your enemy chats with you for a few hours sure …. but real battles?"

Hermione said "Right. All the decision making is done ahead of time. And it's been _really useful_ , I agree. "

Draco nodded. "Right. I mean, I'm certainly making decisions, but all of these techniques, they cost too much time I just pick something that's good enough. It's not like I'm consciously deciding or weighing trade offs. It feels like I'm not making any decisions at all, during a fight. On the first day, when I got ambushed, it's not like I did anything clever. Either time I got ambushed. I don't feel like I made any decisions, even though I tried. But that's only when the spells fly. Even in a battle, there's lots of time to think about things. Just not then."

Harry considered this for a full minute.

"There's a theory for this, called recognition primed decision making. They interviewed firefighters and soldiers to figure out how they made decisions, and they talked to one fire captain who said he didn't think he'd made a decision in a fire during his entire career. He did, of course, he made lots of decisions. Once, there was a tiny fire in a two-story house. His team goes into the ground floor and uses a muggle _Aquamenti_ to douse the fire, but it doesn't go out. In fact, the fire roars back at them. So the captain orders his men out, and right as they are leaving the floor collapses. It turns out there was a basement and it had been on fire for a long time. The captain attributed getting his men out to his sixth sense."

Harry paused. "But you see, it was really just him subconsciously noticing confusion. Once the interviewer sat down and asked him to explain the situation in detail, explain it to someone who wasn't a fire-fighter, there were all these tiny details he'd noticed. The way the smoke moved, the way the fire reacted. The captain knew it didn't add up, so he did the prudent thing and retreated. Just in time."

"Yes, but the only lesson is to be experienced," Draco said. "Other people, even the novice fire fighters didn't notice the problems. You can't teach that. Our battles give us that experience, and we use the techniques outside of battles, afterwards, to clarify our thoughts. We prepare. The preparation makes us strong. It's not that the techniques are useless, not by any means."

Harry held up his hand, and Draco stopped.

"I agree, but I think I can explain this better. We've covered experimentation and falsifiability, but _efficiency_ matters in the real world too. I agree with your general point. Sometimes you have to make snap decisions, and yes, in those cases you can't do everything perfectly. Unlike the 2-4-6 game, sometimes you don't have the time or ability to make a bunch of predictions and get answers. Sometimes you only have a few chances, or even one chance, like the fire-fighter. I think there are some applicable lessons."

"Consider Chocolate Frogs. They come with those Famous Witch and Wizard trading cards, right? Well, they _appear_ to be randomly distributed. I couldn't afford real chocolate frogs, and it would distract us to have them, so I just made a pretend set of trading cards. I'd been saving this for another lesson, but I think it applies. Suppose you want to complete your set of trading cards. If you could predict which card was in which box, you'd just have to buy one box to complete your set, instead of trade. And you only have enough money to buy so many frogs before you run out of money or your parents ground you for eating too much chocolate."

Harry had been mumbling a few words here and there, and finally pulled a pack of Muggle cards from his pouch and set them on the table. "Rather than guess the exact person on each card, we'll just guess if it's a Witch or Wizard. Here, I'll deal a few cards out."

Harry flipped over the top cards of the deck and placed them on the table. Draco got a Wizard, Daphne got a Wizard, Gregory got a Witch, as did Hermione. Neville got a Wizard and then Harry flipped up another card and placed a Wizard in front of himself. Harry picked up the next card and looked at Draco. "Let's play a game, at your turn you guess the gender whoever gets the most cards correct gets an actual Chocolate Frog."

"Witch," said Draco. "We've never seen more than two in a row," he added. Harry flipped over the card and put it down in front of Draco. It was a Wizard.

"Don't feel bad. You made a prediction and you were wrong, but you stated a rule that could be falsified. You performed an experiment. Incidentally, that reminds me of the Better's Oath. We aren't betting, but we are playing a game for stakes, which is similar. I happen to like betting because it forces you to think clearly about how probable something is. Anyway, part of the Better's Oath is 'When I win a bet, I will not shame my opponent, for a betting loser has far more honor than the mass of men who live by loose and idle talk.' So it would be wrong of us to shame Draco, he had an idea, he tested it. He's learned something."

Harry held out the next card, still face down, in front of Daphne. "Witch. I don't know, it just seems like we've had a lot of Wizards." The card was a witch. Harry started to hand it to her, then just put it down and put a pebble on it.

"That way we can still see the pattern. I'll mark the correct cards. Winner still gets a frog. Since we're talking about fast decision making, you have to think fast."

Gregory guessed Wizard correctly, Hermione incorrectly called a Witch, Neville guessed Witch and got one. Harry flipped up a wizard in front of himself without guessing, then pulled out a card for Draco.

"Wizard."

Harry held the card still. "You don't have a theory?" Draco just shrugged so Harry flipped up the card, it was a wizard. They played a few more rounds, faster this time, then Harry set aside the deck and said. "OK, we have a moment to retreat. Now we can apply the theories. So, what do we know. You can see the pattern that's there. Look at what you see."

Hermione started. "There are 30 cards out, and 19 of them are wizards, which seems like yet another bias against Witches. I know, these are famous ones and there are more famous wizards than witches, but it still goes that way."

Draco said "We've had up to five wizards in a row, starting with Neville's fourth card and working around. We've only had three witches in a row."

Gregory had been doing some counting. "After a witch, we had 7 wizards and 4 witches. I'm not sure that means anything."

Neville started to bring up Arithmancy, but Harry cut him off. "The lesson has nothing to do with that. Well, not with Wizarding Arithmancy, math is involved. But I promise it doesn't have anything to do with magical numbers. Well, I suppose it could, but since I don't know much about it it's not my intent."

Harry let them discuss the patterns for four more minutes. "Does anyone have any theories or ideas?"

Nobody did. Actually, Gregory proposed a rather elegant theory, but Neville found a counterexample in the second round. Gregory thought about this and modified his theory, and Harry pointed out that this additional complexity should weigh against him believing his theory, but that didn't mean it was wrong. But nobody else had any ideas.

"OK," said Harry, "Now we're back to an actual battle. I'm going to deal out the rest of the cards. Three left for each person. Draco?"

By this point Draco had given up. The pattern was too complex for him to see. He picked Wizard the next three cards, and was right twice. After another minute, the deck was exhausted and Draco was tied with Neville and Daphne.

"I should have made more cards, a tie was too likely. When I thought of this I figured we'd have fewer people. Anyway, we've got enough information to prove my point. Gregory's theory was proven wrong soon after he amended it, so there's that."

"So, what was it?" asked Neville. "What was the pattern?"

"Oh, it was random. Just like I said it appeared. I made the cards with the right ratios and then shuffled them up before I got here. About 70% of the cards are Wizards and 30% are Witches, which seems to be the actual ratio the Chocolate Frog company uses, because there are more famous Wizards than Witches, Hermione, which may or may not be unfair but that's how it is."

"So, you rigged it," said Gregory. "There's no lesson."

"No, there are lots of lessons. The first lesson is that people are really good at finding patterns where none exist, and then convincing themselves to ignore other evidence. We're trained to see patterns, we see faces in clouds. More importantly the cost for being wrong is usually much much lower than the cost for not seeing a pattern. If you saw a stick and thought it was a snake and jumped up, the worst that would happen is that people would laugh at you. But if you didn't see a snake that was there, you could get killed. So that's why we jump at shadows. Seeing a pattern that isn't there is called Pareidolia, by the way. As for the second lesson. Daphne, why did you bet Wizard, Witch, Wizard for your last three rounds?"

"Well, _not knowing it was random,_ I just tried to make sure that I guessed two wizards to one witch. That was the closest thing we had to a pattern."

Harry nodded and then turned to Neville.

"Same idea. By the last round I had six wizards and only one witch, so I called witch and got it."

"And you, Draco?"

"I didn't see a pattern, so I just called Wizard each time."

"Why wizard?"

"There were more wizards."

"Draco was moderately unlucky, actually. There were more wizards than witches, so when Daphe and Neville actually called Witch one of the final rounds, that should have cost them. If we'd kept playing long enough, Draco would win as long as he kept calling Wizard. If you kept calling Witch one-third of the time, you'd slowly lose out, even though Witches are one-third of the cards. But in the short term, you can get lucky. The funny thing is, if you tell people that the cards are heavily slanted towards Wizards, like Hermione pointed out, people still try to guess Witch every now and then, which is silly. If you don't know the pattern, it may as well be random, so why are you trying to predict something you can't possible know?"

"That still sounds like you cheated for this game," said Daphne.

"Look, imagine Voldemort chasing you. From experience you know that people who go down into the dungeons get away ten times out of one hundred and the people who go into towers survive five times out of one hundred. If you had time to do a full scientific study, you could figure out why or how that was."

"Sadly, Voldemort does not agree to help you, he just wants you dead. But your first goal is to survive Voldemort … or win the game you are playing. So, head to the dungeons. If you have to make a decision right away make the best decision you can with the information you have. If you want to make a prediction, you can tell yourself the hypothesis and what you expect to happen in your head. But make the best bet to survive or win the Chocolate Frog. Like Draco did. In the short term, you could get unlucky, but it's the best you can do, until you come up with a better hypothesis."

"So," said Draco, "You do agree that you have to at least recognize that a situation is weird, then you take your best shot or retreat to figure it out? And that preparation will allow you to make good, even great decisions in most situations, when you don't have time to sort things out."

"I said as much," said Harry. "Look, my methods aren't perfect. They are a tool. They don't guarantee you'll be right they just help you be …. less wrong. The point is to examine your experiences, and use those tools. Sometimes the best you can do is instinct, but instinct is also a trap."

That lead to a long discussion about various modes of thinking, and Harry said that the real issue, which they didn't have time for, was on hypothesis generation, and they'd discuss it at the next meeting. Later that night Draco, sucking the last bits of chocolate from his hand, opened his diary to the final page.

* * *

 **Author's Note** – The Better's Oath was formed by Bryan Caplan, the full version can be found at EconLog.

Recognition Primed Decision Making was in fact studied in the 80s, but I have no idea how Harry Potter got that information. We'll assume his father subscribes to journals. My example and many notes are taken from "Sources of Power: How People Make Decisions" by Gary Klein. I had the pleasure of meeting Doctor Klein a decade ago, although we did not discuss his research.

The experiment that Harry performs (guessing cards) is actually published in '96. A. Tversky and W. Edwards (1966). "Information versus reward in binary choice." Journal of Experimental Psychology, 71, 680-683. See also Y. Schul and R. Mayo 2003, "Searching for certainty in an uncertain world." In Journal of Behavioral Decision Making, 16:2, 93-106. (I found a reference to it on E.Y.'s site)

Tversky also collaborated with Daniel Kahneman, whose book "Thinking: Fast and Slow" served as a partial inspiration for the chapter. T:F&S discusses many of the same biases as listed in HPMOR.


	14. Bold Thinking, Part 2

_"Vagueness is a powerful tool, especially vagueness of motive." - Lucius Malfoy_

"Well done Draco," said Professor Lockhart, as the first years rushed out of the lecture hall, chatting excitedly about their upcoming first battle, scheduled for Sunday. "As always, I suppose I should say."

"I don't know," said Draco. "Nobody is staying after class to ask any questions. We always pestered Professor Quirrell ... well, if he stayed conscious, anyway." The lecture hall had emptied with astonishing speed, just like most other classes. "Maybe we're too available," Draco said thoughtfully.

"Well, that's a tough standard. Most lecturers are lucky to get a single teacher's pet, usually more annoying than flattering." Lockhart shrugged, which sent his weird half-robe/half-cape rippling. "I doubt many teachers meet the ' _does the class hang on my every word_ ' standard. Certainly none of my teachers did. Perhaps this generation will be irretrievably spoiled by having had the most interesting lecturer in their first year, and all others will suffer in comparison. Ah well, at least we'll spare our students that fate, eh, Draco? In any case, what do you think about the upcoming battle? Who do you like?"

Draco barely paused. "Ginevra Weasley will destroy the other two armies."

"And what makes you think that?" The Professor had his wand out and was mass scourgifying the lecture hall, arranging it for the second year class. Lockhart usually just chatted with Draco between classes, whenever it was Draco's turn to lecture. "Did Mr. Potter tell you some insight, or Miss Granger?"

"Well, nothing specific, although I respect the judgment of my fellow Generals and she was declared the Most Dangerous Student. But they did that because of her personality. Have you ever met Fred and George Weasley, besides teaching them? Heard the rumours? Their little sister would have to be at least somewhat ruthless and tough as nails, to keep up with them. Even if they dote on her and protect her, she's probably suffered more from their pranks than anyone. And then she has other brothers. So there's that. But I'm not talking about her fighting spirit. I think her real advantage is that she's heard more stories and tactics over the last summer than the entire rest of the class combined. Miss Weasley has a massive head start. How many students in first year have a sibling in an army? Practically her entire family was in an army last year."

"Yes," said Professor Lockhart, "I suspect we'll have to adjust the army strength a bit early if that turns out to be the case. "But hopefully the others will rise to her challenge. Sometimes that's all that's necessary. I must admit that I myself was a lackluster student here at Hogwarts."

"Then, if I may ask," said Draco, seeing an opening, "how did you manage your current position?" Gilderoy Lockhart stopped cleaning and looked at Draco. The classroom was empty, the next lecture didn't start for twenty minutes.

"Well, I suppose it was Dumbledore's way of apologizing. No, not for anything I did as a student. Last spring he led - oh let's call it an assault - into my cousin's house while I was visiting to kidnap and capture me."

Draco's eyes widened. "That … doesn't sound like Dumbledore. If nothing else it lacks subtlety." Draco doubted Father would relish an all-out assault by Dumbledore, but he'd complained often enough about the convoluted plans he'd had to face. "Why would he do that?"

"Oh, he had this notion that I was Voldemort." Draco said nothing, a look of shock on his face. "Well, seeing as how I've left you speechless I could just tell you a great story about how I managed to fight off Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody and several others, but it would just be a lie. A lie I've been practicing, in case anyone asks, and it's a great story. But the fact of the matter is that I felt them coming, you don't live in a jungle for a few years without learning rather a lot of detection wards. I prepared a few surprises to slow them down. I had shields up and I unleashed a few non-standard hexes, not that they did much good, when Dumbledore came through the door like the sound of thunder and twice as furious. Well, I just threw down my wand. Dumbledore always scared me - as a child he was my Headmaster, too – and my pride has limits. I didn't stand a chance."

Lockhart just stated the last part as a matter of fact, all joviality from earlier gone. "So you surrendered and then?" asked Draco.

"Practically before my wand hit the ground Dumbledore started to apologize, but before he could get more than two words out I'd already been knocked out eight ways to Thursday by the rest of that lot. Classless barbarians. Still, when they revived me Dumbledore apologized. Said that it was a mistake, because of course Lord Voldemort would never surrender – I suppose _he_ had the magic to back up his pride – and explained that since I'd … blossomed they'd just assumed I'd been possessed by Voldemort, or otherwise consorting with Dark Wizards and studying things that I shouldn't be."

"That doesn't seem reasonable," said Draco. "Just because you got powerful, they attack you?"

Professor Lockhart chuckled, "Well, when I say I was a lackluster student, I may have been sugarcoating it. I had … other interests … in my time here at Hogwarts. The fact that I made a name at all must have come as a surprise. If I'd done it here in London that would be one thing, but I'd spent practically a decade out of the country apprenticed to Geralt of Rivia in South America."

Draco coughed apologetically, "You know, to some people – not me! - that sounds like an admission you consorted with a Dark Wizard. Even I've heard of Geralt, and while he may be apolitical, his methods are ... well, not approved by most."

"Oh," said Lockhart, "he's not so bad. I mean, he really hates it when someone doesn't pay up if he thinks he's owed. In many ways Geralt is like, oh, Mad-Eye Moody. He's survived so much that he doesn't suffer fools lightly. And he lacks most social graces. All of them, practically. I think he only allowed me to hang around the first few years because he thought I'd die in an amusing fashion and give him a few extra seconds to survive. I almost did, a few times. No, he and Mad-Eye are both … dedicated bastards, perhaps – please don't tell the Headmistress I said that to a student, she'd think it improper – but if they're on your side you just let the eccentricities slide. No, Geralt isn't a Dark Wizard, just a highly effective one." Lockhart's eyes took on a faraway look, but then focused as a clump of students entered the room. "Anyway, I learned quite a lot from him, and Dumbledore offered me a position based on my new-found competence, and not being Voldemort. I wouldn't have taken the Defence job, but I don't think the curse will be on it anymore. Not after last year."

"Or with the current arrangement, I hope." Draco slid off the main lectern, where he'd been sitting listening, "And how did you swing the Head of House when you weren't even in Gryffindor? What was that an apology for?"

Professor Lockhart just laughed, flashing his perfect teeth. "Ah, I can't put anything by a Malfoy! I should have known you, of all people, would notice that. Well, let's just say that the Headmistress said my choice of mentors showed that I was too stupid to be clever, but just stupid enough to be brave." He touched the side of his nose. "Beyond that, I'm afraid I really can't say."

* * *

As the conspiracy filed out of the classroom Draco headed up the stairs, back towards the castle instead of down into Slytherin. He jogged up a few stairs and caught up to Neville then fell in step beside him.

"Hello," Draco said, "do you have a minute?"

"Sure, I was heading to the library. I've got to write up a full foot on mandrakes, but it's a walk. Where's Gregory?"

"This is private. I was just wondering ... how are your parents?"

Neville stopped, face suddenly red and contorted. Draco reflected that he'd never really seen Neville angry. He'd seen him excited, purposeful, attacking, but either with usually with a look of concentration or joy. Neville sputtered then said, "What's that supposed to mean?"

They kept walking. "You know, I must have imagined what it was like having a mother. And, now that I have one it's nothing like what I expected. It's ... hard. And not living up to my daydreams at all." Draco paused. "I was just wondering if it was just me, and you are the only other person who'd know."

Neville's face went from anger to contrition, and then slightly pale. "It's not just you. Gran's a bit scary, but around my parents I don't know how to act and they don't know what to do..." Draco found himself nodding, and the conversation lasted a long time. At the end Draco felt comforted in the knowledge that he wasn't alone, and he'd made another friend. Time well spent, for a number of reasons.

Draco spent his precious time as best he could.

Studying, researching and always, always, making friends and doing favors. Draco spent spare moments chatting, it hardly felt like work he enjoyed it so much, particularly with Professors Lockhart and Asimov. But he chatted with everybody. Draco encouraged a wary Ethan Jugson to ask Elsie Ambrose out. "She likes you, I know that she does. She's just too shy to do anything about it," he told Ethan over lunch and was pleased to hear they'd been holding hands later that week. It probably wouldn't last, things rarely did at that age, but who knew? Draco certainly didn't. Tracy Davis overheard him and approached Draco to ask for advice on dating Harry. Her plan to become a Darke Lady had apparently fallen off schedule and she had been looking for an angle. Draco did the best that he could, but he truthfully didn't even see Harry that often, he was usually awake and studying in the Library in the early morning hours when others were sleeping, and asleep by the time Potter returned. Still, he did his best, mainly because it amused him to think of Potter dating. And if Harry actually started it would distract him from ... whatever it was he spent his days doing.

He kept up with Vincent, who usually hung out with Neville. Vincent didn't seem as happy as Draco had hoped, but Harry said that people tended to have a set happiness point they reverted to. And if Vincent didn't seem ecstatic, he seemed to be less stressed than usual. Vincent actually sought out Draco from time to time, especially when Gregory had other things to do, like Quidditch practice. They both knew that Vincent feared Draco getting caught alone by a pack of Slytherins, but neither of them needed to say anything.

Draco approached Robert several more times, but had never spotted a good opportunity.

Draco couldn't offer Zacharias Smith any tutoring - that would be interfering in the first year armies - but made sure to point out to the shy first year that most older Slytherin would be more than willing to tutor him. Draco doubted he'd win a battle, but hopefully he could beat that Hufflepuff General. And Blaise refused to talk to him, although Draco did help some of Basilisk army with charms homework, particularly if it would be useful in battle.

Draco, Daphne and Gregory slowly felt out other Slytherins to try and judge who could learn the _Patronus_ spell. Draco doubted they could, or should, keep this a secret much longer.

Draco looked forward to his first battle, when he could finally take some time to just relax. He knew he was overworked, as he sometimes fell asleep during his morning study sessions for quick naps. But, Draco reflected as he walked to class, he may lose to Potter and Hermione, but he would not lose due to lack of effort. He smiled at the thought.

* * *

After his next lecture, Draco said a quick "Be right back" to Professor Lockhart and rushed out of the offence lecture, beating several first years out the door. It was a risk, being out alone, he'd been involved in several fights so far - none nearly as damaging as his first day - but Draco felt desperate. He shouldn't have had that extra orange juice for breakfast, but he'd fallen asleep again and needed a pick-me-up and now it was a long way to the nearest restroom, since the Offence classroom was up here on such a high floor. Draco walked briskly (a jog was undignified), but had to stop to answer a question. Colin Creevey wanted to know what he should do in the first battle, so Draco walked with him for a minute, then begged off and cut back. On his way towards the stairs Draco spotted what looked to be a bathroom entrance he hadn't seen before, and made it back to class with plenty of time.

Only after he'd finished the second year defence class did he notice the restroom had disappeared just as mysteriously as it had appeared. Draco didn't have time to look, but he carefully noted the spot, right across from that tapestry of Trolls in tutus.

* * *

Draco sat at his desk and opened his diary. He quickly flipped through all the blank pages to the last page. His journal understood his meanings, Draco turned pages slowly to search, flipping to the last page brought up a single list. The list itself took many pages, pages which appeared when he flipped from the once-last page to the new-last page. But the journal understood.

He looked at the question he'd written, and his own answer. It had taken a while to boil his thoughts down to the essence, to just the notes he needed. He'd written it question and answer style, the journal hadn't been able to provide any answers, but had suggested clarifying questions.

 _Question - Is Harry Potter Going to be a Dark Wizard?_

 _Answer - Unknown. He will clearly be powerful enough._

 _The real question: Will Harry Potter be a Dark Wizard who betrays/murders as Voldemort did to Father?_

 _Answer - Still Investigating, although I believe this less likely._

 _What evidence can I gather, what experiment can I run to figure this out, without increasing my risk?_

That part sat unanswered. The only solution Draco had thought of would be to learn Parseltongue, but that would take a long time and the only teacher he knew was Harry himself, which made it dubious. He could just confess his thoughts, leaving out the knowledge that he suspected a conversation with Voldemort. There was enough evidence Harry himself had provided that he could reveal some items without really implicating himself. Below that blank gap, at the bottom of the page, stood an index.

 _Further Notes / Miscellaneous Thoughts_

Draco grabbed the page, thumb carefully placed over "Further Notes" and then flipped to the new last page. The first page was titled _Evidence and Implications on Potter's Mental Link with Voldemort._ Draco picked up his pen and started writing. He probably had twenty minutes before he'd leave the Library and go to breakfast, and he couldn't afford to waste time.

* * *

"Draco, my boy? A word?" Draco had finished putting stoppers in flasks and returning ingredients. He glanced at Gregory who went outside and leaned against the wall by the door ... Hufflepuff had potions next, Vincent would notice any strange groups of Slytherins lurking.

"Yes, Professor Slughorn?"

"Draco, I taught your Father. Good student, good lad. Taught your Mother, too."

Draco nodded pleasantly. It was much easier to do when you honestly had no idea where things were going.

"Well, I know your Father considered me … well, he didn't consider me much at all."

"He said you had your good days." Draco honestly had no idea what Father had ever said to Professor Slughorn, so he stuck with the truth.

"Yes, he would. I suppose. And now we are in the awkward spot here. I dare not get involved directly in your little problem."

"With respect, Professor, this isn't just me being on a first name basis with Madam Pomfrey." Draco never showed any signs of injury, but those who paid attention would see that he walked with care, and maybe his clothes look a bit too neat, as if they'd been fixed repeatedly during the day.

"No, no, no. I know. I wasn't trying to minimize this. We're at the crucial point. I can feel it. This is the year that makes or breaks us. Exciting, hmm? But, well, I'm not sure I can be useful. You-Know-Who's followers respected Severus. Even those who think he betrayed them. But I never joined. I never was a joiner, you know, preferred to keep the company of a more pleasant circle. But they don't respect that."

Draco nodded again. Professor Slughorn's ambition, if he had any, was opaque to Draco.

"Anyway. I'd be happy to help you directly, you know. But I suspect the appearance would outweigh any trivial thing I might do."

"I see you are probably right, Professor. I'd been meaning to ask anyway, but I've been busy..." Draco realized that Professor Slughorn was nodding politely and reaching down into his desk. Draco tensed up, a habit he needed to get rid of but automatic after the last month, and the Professor pulled back his hand holding not a wand but a clear, tear drop shaped vial, stoppered at the top. It looked like molten gold.

"Do you know what this is, Draco? Well, not surprising. This is _Felix Felicis_. Liquid Luck. If you were to gulp down the whole thing you'd have a perfect few hours, it's just a small dose. But a quick sip may get you out of a tight jam. Save you some personal suffering."

He held out the vial, and Draco saw one small gold drop try to leap out, only to hit the seal and fall back. He passed it over to Draco and watched it quickly disappear into the boy's robes.

"Thank you Professor," said Draco with sincerity, "I really appreciate this."

"Of course you do. You know I never really played the game at your father's level, never really cared to. But I do understand it, perfectly well. Actions, my boy, count more than words. I intend for our House to survive, but I'm not going to be able to sway them quickly enough. That falls to you. Use it well, Draco."

Draco thanked Professor Slughorn again and was almost out the door when the Professor added "Do say Hello to you charming Mother from me?"

"It's clear, I think," Gregory said as Draco strolled through the door. Only a few Hufflepuffs were visible, heading towards the class. "Well?"

"We actually have an ally with him. Who would have thought?" Draco flashed the vial so that Gregory could see it. Gregory's eye's widened.

"Then why do you look so disturbed?"

"Slughorn may be wishy-washy but he's still the head of House Slytherin and ' _A good move has multiple purposes.'"_ Draco suppressed a small shudder. "I'll tell you later, in private."


	15. Chess

_"Trust but verify. Distrust and verify. Remain uncertain and verify. Always verify." - Lucius Malfoy_

Imagine you are a future Voldemort, aged twelve.

You are surrounded by lesser wizards, wizards you will mock, torture, and kill with impunity when you are older. They are, all of them, beneath you. You long for that day to come, when you cast off your mask of civility and seize control. But now you are at Hogwarts and while you are considerably advanced for your age, such that you defiantly face down older students, possibly even seventh years, there are teachers that wield far more power than your tiny body can hold.

After all, Magic grows with age, and you are so very young.

Not only magical power, but magical efficiency increases with knowledge, and while you are a diligent future Dark Lord you've only had so many hours of life and some of those around you have a century head start. You gnash your teeth, but railing against the injustice inherent in youth does not (so far as you can see) increase your power. So you control your rage.

Perhaps you bully smaller children or lesser children, but that would be a risk if discovered. A teacher might notice, might decide that you are too unstable to share any secrets with. You dare not bully Muggles outside of school, not with magic, lest you attract the attention of the Ministry of Magic and have your wand snapped. Your rage is great, but so is your intellect because you have no intention of being a _stupid_ Dark Wizard.

Imagine your frustration.

In older, less enlightened times, undoubtedly you would let your rage fly off the handle from time to time. You couldn't keep it bottled in for years or decades. You would arrange for 'accidents' and fights that could be labeled as youthful indiscretions - just kids being kids - a heat-of-the-moment duel that got out of hand.

But those were other times and you, you are a Dark Wizard who learned how to lose at the youngest of ages, which meant _how to pretend to lose_. Professor Quirinus Quirrell taught you personally, in your first week of classes. No, you will not make _that_ mistake. You will be charming - as charming as you can stand, which isn't much but you'll try - and beloved by teachers who will be happy to reveal their secrets to you, their favorite student. You will then research on your own and reveal your improved, better knowledge to them. They will mark you as important, and seek to curry favor with you, not because you are Dark but you may very well grow up to be the next Albus Dumbledore, and they would like to be able to brag, to say "I taught him that" or "I knew him when he was just a child." Yes, even a Dark Lord needs allies, at this age.

So you make allies.

You channel your rage, mask it with a bewildering array of habits that may sometimes harm those around you but never appear malicious. Even those you hate will be able to consider you as a friend, or if not friend then at least a convenient and useful ally. You cannot bring yourself to act as if you were beneath anyone else your age. But you can pretend you have equals. A few, not many. With them, you are usually friendly but sometimes put them in terrifying situations as a joke, a way to blow off steam. You may even get one of them killed, if you can arrange it. That would be useful, a memory you can treasure. You are a smart Dark Wizard, and if you do murder from time to time, you'll get away with it.

You will grow up to be a Dark Wizard. Your rage won't trip you up.

But you may make _another_ mistake that would let an observer unmask you, reveal your intentions to the world. Maybe one you don't even notice.

Draco Malfoy sat as his desk, drumming his fingers, trying to imagine what mistake Harry Potter would make if he were a future Dark Wizard. He'd done this exercise several times already. And he'd always reached the same decision: _Harry Potter would act identically whether he intended to be Voldemort or not, if he were clever._ And Harry Potter was definitely clever.

It was no help, imagining yourself as Harry Potter.

Draco needed evidence that he lived with a future Dark Lord. Luckily this was important, not urgent. Draco had a head start in studying, and Potter couldn't reveal himself anytime soon. If Draco could get proof enough to convince others, he guessed he still had five years. Maybe a bit less.

If it came to that.

* * *

Draco stood in the middle of the Hospital. He'd been thoroughly searched, as he had been every time. He'd gone through the anti-magic zone. The Aurors hadn't found anything, and since they normally didn't do more than keep a watch on this area, the safe area, there was only one Auror on duty staring at him. He looked at the rows of beds on it, most of the patients were unconscious, but some were moaning. Orderlies were fetching water, trying to make them comfortable.

"Could you please turn around, sir" said Draco to the burly Auror watching him.

"Now why would I do that," he asked?

"Because you know I'm trying something," said Draco. "And that's a false advantage. In a real security breach you wouldn't know who to be watching. There are other people here. This is hard enough without you knowing who is the bad guy. So this extra attention is unfair."

"Oh, I was just watching to see what happens," said the Auror. "It gets a mite boring these days, not like the summer when everyone was attacking this place. Right filled up Azkaban's cells. Well, what's left of it, anyway." The Auror paused, thinking, tapping his wand against his cheek in an offhand manner. Draco had noticed that patients who went into the healing area never came out. There was another exit, into a different area. One way doors, probably. "Tell you what, anything funny happens and I'll count to three, which is slower than I'd give. And if it's subtle, I'll count to ten."

Draco sighed. "I suppose that's fair," Draco said, and walked over to the spot he'd arranged.

There was a small _Whamf_ and Dobby appeared.

"One …. oh hahahahaha! Oh, that's good!" The Auror had stopped counting, doubled over in laughter.

"Dobby is very sorry, sir. The others ambushed him." Dobby wasn't holding Draco's wand, wasn't holding anything at all. In fact, he rolled slowly around on the spot where he appeared. Several of the patients sat up from their bed to look and see what the commotion was. Dobby rolled, tied up in small ball of what looked like Acromantula webbing, leaving only his face free. "It wasn't Dobby's fault, sir! Oh dear..."

Another House Elf appeared in a small puff and bowed to Draco, and then the Auror.

"Your wand is safe, sir! And we will return it," the elf said, "once you leave the hospital area." The elf bowed again, then disappeared.

Dobby kept spouting apologies but, bundled as he was, couldn't smash his face into anything and just rolled around the floor, as the other patients started laughing.

* * *

"Thank you all for coming to this optional evening session of Muggle Studies," said Professor Asimov.

Draco sat in the Muggle Studies lecture hall, which was packed to capacity with students of all years and houses. Draco could see Luna Lovegood sitting in the front row, wearing bizarre glasses made of paper with one red lens and one green one. Ron Weasley sat chatting with Fred and George, who were ignoring him. The hall was full of students, those who thought Muggles exotic, the teacher's pets, the curious, and a few with nothing better to do. Harry had dropped hints for days that Draco should really attend, that everyone who missed it would be jealous, that he envied Draco the experience and Draco agreed _just to get Harry Potter to shut up_.

Which wasn't rational, except that it achieved Draco's desired goal. In any case, Draco planned to attend because he'd triggered this session during one of his discussions with Professor Asimov. Draco had stopped by to ask a few questions and had been asked "Why do so many of your colleagues resist my class?"

Draco had thought about it, then answered.

"Inertia, mostly. Many believe that Wizarding society is better, as a matter of course. To a certain extent it depends on your viewpoint, but until the last two centuries they were probably correct. Some Muggles lived better than the average Wizard, but very few. But mostly, you are teaching a class that they can't see any benefit from."

"Ah, of course. It's obvious once you say it. Students ignoring professors is the natural order in both worlds. I have to find something interesting."

So, when last class the Professor had announced a special session that "Would not be on your test, but would be 'something interesting.'" Draco resolved to go.

So he sat there, while Professor Asimov walked the stage. "Thank you all for attending opening night. This is a movie, a muggle play. As you may know muggles can make moving pictures like wizards, but require special equipment to do so. We've finally fitted out this hall with that equipment and worked out some of the problems with magic and technology. In consultation with some of your Muggleborn students, I've tried to pick a movie that is educational about muggle society. And we'll see some of those … later. For now we've picked something that is just enjoyable. Rest assured that none of the beasts you see in this film exist, at least not as we know, and that most of the technology is also make believe. In many ways, this is a modern day children's story, but as we all know fairy tales form a large part of any society. And it is undoubtedly popular."

Harry Potter, sitting in the projectionist booth, dimmed the lights and flicked on projector, which had taken him days to set up, but incorporating magic and technology was a long term research goal anyway. He reached over for his popcorn just as the main theme blare of John Williams famous score announced the beginning of the movie and the slow introductory text crawled.

The next day eight students received detention for _Lucius Gladius_ fights in the hallway.

Muggle Movie Night became a popular tradition.

* * *

It was late Wednesday night, several days after the last meeting of the Bayesian Conspiracy, when Harry Potter walked into the room he shared with Draco and Gregory.

"Why don't you include us in your _other_ conspiracy," Draco asked, "the one you do instead of going to classes all day like a normal student?"

"I don't have to be in," Gregory added, right hand by his ear. "Unlike some people, I like having down time. Of course, if its _interesting_..." They'd been playing exploding snap and Gregory felt that Harry Potter's sudden entrance had robbed him of his glory. Some of it. Gregory flicked his fingers forward and _pop!_ felt vindicated.

"I've considered it a lot. I want to. But I just can't, not yet. I need to manage risks." Telling secrets was frequently just one of those things Harry Potter couldn't do. Not without Hermione's blessing. He could tell those who already knew, of course. He could evade. But Hermione's arguments that summer about slowing down had actually bound his tongue even more. He couldn't trust Draco Malfoy completely.

Draco's training wasn't complete.

"And we're a risk," Draco said flatly.

"I don't think so," said Harry. "It's one of those things that's impossible to know, so the only cure is more time. It's like we discussed last year, you can't just barge into a fast friendship, or something like this. And last spring raised the stakes dramatically."

"Do you know why I conceded my duel, Harry?" Gregory gave a start, then went over and closed the door, and started to ward it. His wards weren't as advanced as Harry's own, or even Draco's, but Gregory knew more than the curriculum had covered.

"To avoid upsetting the Jugsons. Which apparently worked, if rumour is true."

Gregory spoke up. " _A great move serves multiple purposes._ "

While Draco nodded, Harry thought. He could see a lot of possible reasons. But reasoning from so little information was difficult...

Draco interrupted "Do you play chess, Harry? I've got two sets."

"I know the rules to Muggle chess," Harry said, "not Wizard Chess."

They set up the board, Draco explaining while Gregory took out the the pieces - green for Draco and silver for Harry - and placed then on the board carefully, so as not to annoy them. After each piece was set down, it marched over to its assigned square. Draco had already covered pawns and knights when Harry interrupted.

"The rook moves horizontally, and the pieces seem to be heading for the right starting locations. I think they are the same rules for Muggle chess, actually."

"How do Muggles make the pieces move, then?" asked Gregory.

"They just pick them up and move them. How do wizards do it? Wands?"

"No, you tell which piece what you want to do and you have to convince it," said Gregory. "That's what makes it interesting."

Draco looked stunned. "So, you just physically move the pieces? That … That's … _awesome_. No backtalk? No second guessing? If you discover a brilliant tactic you can just do it and not to have some knight turn left instead of right because he felt like it? Sounds amazing, although not nearly as useful for teaching how to think. We have to play Muggle chess! Later, though. "

Draco took out his wand, tapped it on the table. The pieces stood up a bit straighter, at attention.

"Silver pieces – Just as Father gave you to me, I now give you to Potter. You follow his instructions. Understood?" The pieces agreed, some grumbling. The queen, apparently, didn't like the look of the new boy. A few pawns whispered conspiratorially. The king's bishop snored, only to be prodded awake by the King himself, who lilted disapprovingly.

"Pawn to King Four," said Harry Potter. The pawn stood there, twisting slightly, as though looking over it's shoulder back to Harry. "Um … Pawn to King Four Please?" The pawn untwisted and marched forward two spaces. The game proceeded quickly. Draco, whenever making a move, would simply point out that it was good move, offered the piece a chance for glory, to help his teammates, or simply promised the piece it would be safe. Harry, by contrast, had to wrangle the pieces considerably. But like many gifted children Harry had been introduced to Chess and spent several weeks studying it deeply before he realized that becoming great at chess meant that he'd become great at chess, and little else. Still, Harry had a decent grasp of tactics and positional strategy. In Muggle chess Harry felt he'd trounce Draco, but Draco's pieces always did what he wanted, while Harry's pieces committed their own follies. It was an even game.

"Castle Queenside please," said Harry Potter. "It will protect the king, and bring the Rook to bear on the upcoming battle in the center. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" The rook nodded enthusiastically. "And everyone will be much safer."

"That's a bad move, Harry," said Draco.

"I think it's a good move, it does exactly what I've told them, and the pieces will do it. I doubt I could convince that Bishop sacrifice itself in an attack, which was my other choice."

Draco shrugged and Harry confirmed the move. His King shifted over two spaces to the queen's side, and then stepped aside to let the rook pass. But as the Rook went by it took out a sword and stabbed the King, shouting "Aha!", shimmering from Silver to Green. The other Silver pieces booed and shouted "Traitor!"

"You lose," said Draco, taking out the box to start storing his pieces.

"You knew that rook was a double agent! That's not …," Harry paused while Draco just looked it him quizzically.

"Fair? What's fair got to do with it?"

"So is that normal, Draco, in wizard chess? Traitors?"

"Of course not. This is the set Father taught me with. A set for teaching." In his mind Harry could hear Draco's words from before the game. _Just as Father gave you to me, I now give you to Potter._ "And my first lesson – Learn who to trust."

Harry remembered that Draco had offered this game to provide an insight into Draco and his earlier Duel. "So you are upset because you aren't trusted?" asked Harry.

"No. We don't play that game, Harry," said Draco, who had taken out the box for the green pieces and ordered them back. "I admit I'm not thrilled with it but I'm a Malfoy, I understand. And we have history. But think about the game, and now consider why I just asked you to play chess right then."

Harry thought. Harry remembered logic puzzles where a question is posed, "How many blue-eyed people exist on this island" where everyone is a perfect logician, or the solution to some obscure math puzzle among expert mathematicians. The islanders don't know. Nobody can see their own eyes, since they don't have mirrors (and only trust what they can see). But then a wise old man says "I see someone with blue eyes." And as they days go by eventually all the islanders, using their perfect logic, know the answer. Because they realize that if only one person had blue eyes, he'd know after a day or two (seeing only brown eyes) that he was the only one. The more people with blue eyes, the longer it takes, but a person who can see one other islander with blue eyes will know that the other islander should figure it out instantly, if his eyes weren't blue.

They'll all figure it out, eventually, no matter how many blue eyes exist, once they recognize the inferences when other people can or can't solve the puzzle.

So, while Harry couldn't narrow it down before, the fact that the Chess game had been meant as a lesson. A lesson with two purposes, a primer on trust and Draco's answer to _Why did I resign_? Still, he couldn't decide between two answers until he heard Gregory's small "Oh." Realizing that Gregory had missed the solution made it easy.

"You resigned to avoid revealing your anger at your Father, not your Mother. Lucius Malfoy trusted Voldemort, no that's not really it, he _distrusted_ Dumbledore and you fear making the same mistake with me."

Draco nodded. "He couldn't tell which pieces were on his side and that's the first lesson. The very first lesson." Draco's voice seemed to crack. He'd carefully considered this speech earlier. It might reveal that Draco knew what Parseltongue implied, but he didn't have to admit that. Draco had agonized over this for the summer. "For a while, I thought that maybe Father knew what was going to happen and just sacrificed himself. But if he knew he'd have probably found an excuse to let Gregory and Vincent's fathers not show up. Maybe I'm wrong but _Father didn't know_. You talk about the fundamental rules of rationality, but the fundamental rule of politics is to understand your relationship with those around you and Father failed. It's ... haunting me. You seem like my friend, but we both keep secrets. I'm mad at Father for getting it wrong. I believe you, but … I wonder if I'm making a mistake trusting you. If I won't end up dead because of it, the same way Father did. I'm sorry, Gregory."

"Don't worry. We've all thought it. If we turn up dead at least the others will know," Gregory shrugged, displaying an indifference he didn't feel.

"What," said Harry, even though he knew the answer.

Gregory kept putting the chess pieces away. "You clearly had some connection with Voldemort, through your scar. You could see through it, the night he came back. We discussed it over the summer."

"Like I said, Harry," Draco continued, "I understand. I can't prove a negative, but I have doubts. Maybe you have doubts about me, but you need me in your conspiracy. It will reassure us both. We complement strengths, I'd be useful. I have to keep an eye on you, you are too important, and if you didn't freeze me out we could trust each other faster. Shave years off the process. You must understand this, now."

"I do. But, I'll have to discuss this with others."

Gregory, having put away the pieces, was now back at his desk and working on some Transfiguration homework. He didn't look up. "I hope you investigated _them_ more than your borrowed chess set."

* * *

"I could give him Veritaserum..." Harry saw the flaw. "Wait, there's no way to know if someone is an _Occlumens_ , is there?" The same informational attack that Harry used to deduce how the Dark Mark worked applied here. If some test existed, nobody's deception could be perfect. The phrase _Perfect Occlumens_ implied no such test existed or had yet been discovered, anyway. Headmistress McGonagall started to answer, but got interrupted.

"I would have trusted the serum, before. Never imagined someone so young could even start training. Just goes to show." said Mad-Eye, stomping around the office in a slow circle. He hadn't yet taken the cure, despite providing security for the new hospital. He still had doubts. And while he would never admit it, Moody enjoyed his current appearance and the fear he caused. Made his life easier, too, lots of people surrendered to him. Those he attacked a touch less violently, before arresting. Just in case they were faking.

"Then how do Auror's know who's testimony you can exclude," Harry asked. The Wizarding legal system, despite seeming quaint, clearly had a staggering number of flaws.

Amelia Bones answered "Tradition. Most people can't, so the default is that we accept it, certainly for anyone as young as Draco. Once you've started training or been caught in a lie using it, well, you can never use what you say under Veritaserum to convict someone else, but your memories can be used against you, of course. And as a matter of tradition we tend to _discount_ accusations by certain Houses once they reach maturity."

Harry thought about the implications of this, trying to see if they matched his experience. If what he'd heard was accurate, Dumbledore could have raised the issue to save Hermione, if he had any suspicion of Draco. But would Dumbledore actually have objected? Dumbledore had been willing to let Hermione go to Azkaban... he'd played such a complicated game Harry couldn't judge anything from Dumbledore's actions, because he'd been reacting to complex prophecies and who knows what else.

Harry sympathized with Draco. This would be easier if everyone could trust everyone. Harry felt reasonably certain Draco had been turned, but...

With the revelation that Harry couldn't trust Veritaserum to make him fully certain, the other obvious solution required a carefully worded Unbreakable Vow. Harry doubted Draco would accept. In any case, Harry didn't _want_ to use a vow on Draco or on anyone he knew personally. It would cause resentment. Letting the Philosopher's Stone fall into the hands of a Dark Wizard? That was an existential threat. Harry couldn't allow that.

And Harry Potter couldn't rationalize away his knowledge that the greatest threat the world faced was Harry Potter.

Harry's Vow automatically stopped him from doing anything rash, like breaking the Statute of Secrecy without preparation. That was the good part. But it only stopped him when he was somehow aware of the problem. Like Veritaserum or Parseltongue, the Vow wasn't an Oracle. It didn't stop him from ending the world accidentally or provide him with knowledge he didn't know at some level. Harry spent the summer considering various ways he could topple that first domino that led to Armageddon, because once he did know something then the Vow would protect the world from himself.

Unfortunately Harry Potter had a _particularly vivid_ imagination.

The more he'd thought about the problem, the more restrictive his Vow became. It tightened as summer went on, as Harry became more and more aware of the number of ways he could destroy the world. At first - in the early days - his Vow empowered Harry. Now it restricted him considerably. Decisions he would have made quickly, neglecting a tiny probability of failure, now had to be examined in detail.

The odds of Draco turning Dark? Small, but there. Not quite negligible.

Casting a Vow on Draco might make Draco bitter, might _nudge_ Draco out of the light. Eventually. And honestly the Vow didn't guarantee safety.

Harry defeated Voldemort while operating under the Parseltongue curse. He could still end the world accidentally, if he didn't know some crucial piece of information. If he rushed things. Harry could _imagine_ Draco, wounded by his Father's death, becoming the next Dark Lord. Probably not an insane Voldemort persona, but a Dark Ruler? Harry couldn't dismiss it outright, couldn't rationalize it away without detailed consideration that frankly he didn't have time for. As Draco himself had pointed out, trust was a complicated issue and not Harry's strong suit. He'd be able to do it, later. Time would let him turn his 95% probability of Draco's redemption into 98% into 99% into some number so certain that to not act on it would be irrational.

But Harry's own rationality, coupled with the Vow, enforced caution. Four months ago Harry would have spilled the secrets of his victory over Voldemort to Draco. Harry would demonstrate trust and not seal the memories. _After_ his Vow Harry couldn't confess without pre-committing to seal those memories away. It was just the first of a growing list of things-he-found-he-couldn't do.

Harry could imagine a perfectly safe Vow to make, but now that he lived under that burden he wouldn't inflict it on another.

He'd had to talk with Hermione, convince her.

Harry couldn't do anything now, realized he was wasting time, and went back to the business at hand with the Order of the Phoenix. He had details to attend to, things to do, things he could affect right now that he needed to do, before he could progress to the next phase of his plan.


	16. Bold Thinking, Part 3

_'You will rarely be caught in a lie your victim wants to believe. He would rather make the lie come true than expose you." - Lucius Malfoy_

"What I'm trying to get at," Harry Potter said to the gathered Bayesian Conspiracy, located in the potions classroom near Slytherin, "is that the fastest course of action is to make the boldest prediction possible, then experiment."

Neville asked "What do you mean by bold?"

"I mean something simple, something powerful. The old theory of planetary motion stated that the Earth stood still and everything else moved around it. But that meant planets sometimes changed directions. That theory worked, but had lots of convoluted answers and math. The newer, bolder theory placed the sun at the center. It made predictions that allowed easier calculations."

"But what if that theory had been wrong?" Daphne asked a lot of clarifying questions, which Harry appreciated. She'd made a great addition to the group for that reason alone. "I mean, that theory was correct and happened to be bold, but what if the right theory was timid?"

"Well, if you make a bold prediction and are wrong, you tend to be wrong _quickly_ ," Harry said. "I lost days trying to fine tune a prediction last year, when an hour of work would have told me I was wrong. In the case of an incorrect bold theory, you typically discover a counter example quickly, and then can go back and think. It's not that you'll be right every time, but when you are wrong you'll gain insight into the problem, and hopefully won't waste as much time."

* * *

Draco and Gregory headed up the stairs, towards the offence classroom. Draco taught again today, leading the discussion of how Ginevra Weasley's Genies had destroyed Nicholas Martin's Manticore Army and Zacharias Smith's Spectres. First year Generals had been advised to take unused army names and once "Ginny's Genies" had formed the other two stuck with the best alliterations they could think of that could be considered fearsome. Like Draco feared, the battle – such as it was - hadn't been close. He didn't relish talking about it for the next hour and a half. Weasley's army had faked being dead as had Smith's army. But, unlike Zacharis Smith, Ginny had thought ahead and issued a standing order to shoot dead enemies again, 'just to be sure.'

Gregory had insisted on going with Draco. In theory, to protect Draco from another ambush, everyone knew Draco lectured today. In practice ...

"Look," said Gregory, "Montague and Flint are good chasers, Bletchley's a solid keeper, if a bit uninspiring, but I just can't work with Peregrine. I mean, he's a good flyer, better than Vincent even, but I just never know what he's going to do."

"You can hardly expect to build up the same rapport in a few days. Who is the other chaser?" asked Draco.

"I think it's Warrington, but he's rubbish. Won't be good for another year, at least. I just don't know what to do with Derrick. I realize we've only had five days, but he has the strangest ideas about what the beater position entails. Although I suppose it's all up in the air this year, isn't it? Two forty-five minute halves? Who thinks of these things?"

They went up another flight of stairs, in the distance they heard a crash and Peeves shouting. The first years were probably behind them and didn't know the poltergeist's typical ambush points. "Well, Gregory, take some comfort that Vincent is complaining to Hufflepuffs about their other beater, uh …."

"Rickett," Gregory supplied. Right, thought Draco, Anthony Rickett. He tried to visualize Rickett. Tall for his age, but that may just be an early growth spurt. Brown hair, kind of weaselly look. The animal, not the family.

"Anyway, I'm sure that Vincent has spent the last week complaining that Rickett isn't a bad guy, but he's no Gregory Goyle." The walked past a landing, sunlight streamed through a small vertical slit of a window, with a tapestry hanging besides it. Draco stopped and examined it, then spun around.

"That is one ugly thing. What are you looking for anyway?" asked Gregory. The tapestry depicted a bunch of Trolls and a wizard wearing bright pink robes demonstrating _en pointe_ to the trolls, who watched attentively, with minimal drool. Draco stood facing the other direction, but there was just a blank wall, the rare bit of empty space this high up. Normally the walls displayed paintings, tapestries, windows, dangerous ledges, or some knick-knack. But this hallway had ten solid empty feet, with nothing. Draco ran his fingers across the wall, feeling along the seams.

"I could have sworn there was a restroom here last week," said Draco. "Right between those suits of armor. I mean, I used it – really nice, better than the Prefect's restroom that has the heated pool - and I definitely recognize the tapestry," he waved back behind him. "I'm sure it was here."

"I don't imagine you could forget that," said Gregory, examining the background. "This will haunt my dreams, ah! Duck!"

Draco crouched down as several spells flew over his head. He glanced to the left and saw the Carrow sisters, Flora and Sheila poking around the corner firing spells. Hestia stood in a doorway on the right with another older Slytherin girl, Viola Richmond. _What was it with the Slytherin girls? And didn't anybody aim for the chest anymore? Center of mass, hard to dodge. Maybe they just had terrible aim_. Gregory dove across the hallway, firing blindly, and pulled himself behind the suit of armor for cover. Draco reached into his cloak and touched the vial of liquid luck, then put it back. This didn't seem that desperate.

"Retreat back around the corner on three," Gregory said and pointed his wand down the hallway and counted "one, two, _Jellyfy._ " Draco ran the few steps to the corner and turned left into the pack of Slytherin boys.

"Oh, cra..."

Gregory heard Draco's shout, and then the _Petrificus Totalus_ and then nothing.

Gregory fired off a few more spells at the now retreating girls and looked back at Draco's body, visible from the waist up as he'd fallen backwards.

"Goyle? This isn't personal. We all like you, Gregory," Marcus Flint's voice carried around the hall, "And we just need to teach your friend some manners. But you can walk away."

"You don't really expect that, do you Marcus?" Gregory shouted, then glanced at down the hallway. The ladies were slipping away. He didn't bother firing on them, but moved to get cover towards the corner.

"No, not really. But we are teammates and I," the words ended with a sickening crunch and some shouts, a _stupefy_ , a curse he didn't recognize and Hermione Granger shouting _Glisseo._ There were several more shouts in response followed by the sound of tumbling. Gregory ran – no point in dodging when the enemy had no line-of-sight – and crouched over Draco's body then peeked around the corner. Marcus Flint stood doubled over, bleeding from his mouth, lower lip even larger than normal and one of his front teeth twisted slightly.

Gregory pulled Draco out of the line of fire and saw Lucian Bole, who Gregory had just taken the Beater position from, down on his hands and knees but still firing curses at Hermione. Terence Higgs, former seeker, cast an _Expelliarumus_ and hit Granger squarely with it, her wand flying down the hall. Hermione just got up and started running _towards_ Higgs. Gregory hit Bole with a _Somnium_ just as Hermione slid into Higg's legs, knocking him over like a set of tenpens. They rolled over each other along the ground and then she was on him, throwing punches into his stomach.

Boles let out a few grunts and Hermione wrestled his wand away from him, barely pausing before leaping up and breaking into a graceful run. By this point Marcus had recovered and, spitting out his tooth, cast _Protego._ Gregory's stupefy was well aimed, but hit shields. Hermione cast a few _Lagann_ s and Gregory followed suit, but Marcus's shields held and he fired a powerful _Ventus_ towards Gregory that sent several paintings flying off the wall, complaining loudly about students today as they clattered to the floor. Gregory ducked back just in time to see Hermione swinging through the air, legs around Marcus's neck, then her momentum flipped him off his feet just as she released her ankles and then landed next to him and simply kicked his wand away before hitting him with a _stupefy._

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," Gregory said under his breath. He walked over to Draco whose eyes followed his movements. Gregory cast _finite incatatem._ Draco popped up quickly, taking in the scene, while Gregory recovered the scattered wands.

"There were a few more on the stairs," Hermione said, "but I didn't see them before they slid away. Sorry. I guess it would have been useful to know who they were. But better safe than sorry." Gregory tossed Hermione's wand to her. "Thanks, Gregory."

Draco walked up to Hermione. "Are you all right? Thanks," he said, somewhat bashfully, "for everything." Draco inspected Higgs and Flint, both now moaning slightly, then stood up and looked at Hermione again. "If you want, I can fix up that bruise so it doesn't show until you can get it taken care of."

"No, I'm fine, Draco. It's lucky I was here."

"Yes," said Draco, "very lucky."

* * *

"No," said Gregory in an excited whisper, "there's no way she could do that. I couldn't do that move, it requires a good _decade_ of martial arts training. That's Asian quality Shaolin type stuff. No way Hermione Granger just learns that." They were walking back after both offence classes, Draco lecture and the second year class. They'd stopped by the tapestry again and Draco asked Gregory to walk him through what happened - another after-action report, like the one he'd lectured on to the first year students.

"And yet she did it," Draco said quietly. "Or you imagined it."

"I did not imagine that," Gregory started and Draco just shook his head.

"No, I believe you, she really did it. You saw it, it's true. And _you are confused_." Draco let the words hang in the air as they walked down another flight of stairs. "How did her hair look? How did she look, while fighting."

Gregory considered. "I didn't get a good view, but I'd say normal. Why?"

"You said she tumbled on the ground, tackled Higgs and rolled and punched him. But she had no dirt or dust on her. Just one bruise. Her hair looked perfect, not even mussed, when I looked at her. I thought - I don't know - I thought I was infatuated with her."

"I'm infatuated with her right now, too," Gregory interrupted.

"Yes, I get that. I think I still am. But I think it's not just infatuation. I think she's got a glamour to keep her hair nice, repel dirt, the works. I mean, I can do all that but it's not permanent. If I'd gone flying through the air my hair would mess up. And she also has a _glow_. Maybe she's got some other spell that makes her graceful. She wasn't sweating, either, although the fight ended so fast that doesn't really mean anything."

Gregory nodded. "Yeah. Yes, that sounds right. And she was graceful, like you said. How did you know?"

"It's why I believe you. When I got hit, did you notice anything unusual?"

"I wasn't looking that way. I was covering you, remember? But you were awake when you the fight was over. But that spell doesn't put you to sleep..."

"It does if you hit the ground hard enough," said Draco, "but I didn't hit at all. Something caught me right before I hit the ground, then lowered me. It had to be her, unless we're saying there was someone else around. And, I'm not sure but I think she caught me with her foot." Draco remembered last night's lesson. "Do we have a bold prediction on what's going on?"

They walked along in silence for three flights of stairs.

"OK, let's just assume that she's become pretty amazing," said Gregory, "which we already knew, after Azkaban."

"Assuming Azkaban is true," said Draco, "which now seems likely." Gregory nodded. "She was always anti-bully, so maybe she's just lurking around to wreck vengeance on them."

"And not," said Gregory slowly, "following us around because Potter asked her to."

"Invisibly," Draco added.

"With martial arts skills I don't have after six years of training," Gregory said.

"That she never showed last year," finished Draco.

They walked back to the dorms in silence.

* * *

Horace Slughorn stared over his assembled Slytherin students, those who had been marched from the Headmistresses office after being caught for attempted bullying. They weren't impressive – even ignoring that they'd lost to a second year girl, albeit The Girl Who Revived – but he couldn't tolerate the pettiness, the lack of ambition.

These weren't ringleaders, the clever rarely got nabbed in the first sweep. These, he reflected, were minions. But as he looked along the worried faces, Professor Slughorn suspected the instigators would hear everything he'd say soon enough. He'd had the Headmistress send the bruised and defeated students to his potions classroom instead of meeting them in the dungeons, because the long walk allowed time to worry. He'd finished brewing a particularly nasty draught of Baneberry potion, room smelling pungent as if a fire burned rotting flesh that left students coughing and eyes watering. It took decades to acclimate to all the smells in a potions laboratory, and only the best Potions Masters could stomach them all.

Which didn't make it any more pleasant for him, but he showed no sign of distress, unlike his charges.

"Flint, m' boy. _I'm_ inclined to overlook this whole thing," said Professor Slughorn, as Marcus Flint's face relaxed into a look of dumb relief, "since I would hate to lose the Quidditch cup as my first year. Oh, that wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all, no matter how they change the rules. And if I suspend you, well, I'll have to investigate the rest of the team and and where would we be, hmm? Nowhere good." He turned his gaze to the other boys and noted, with satisfaction, their watering eyes. No doubt caused by the thick musk in the air, but if he needed to send them out in public others would assume they'd been crying.

"Still, I can't very well let you off without something. Must keep up appearances. Now," said Slughorn, shifting his considerable bulk, as the chair creaked plaintively, looking down at Flint, Higgs, and Bole, "I find it hard to believe that you have a serious grievance against Malfoy. None of you lost your parents. You might have a slight against Mr. Goyle, Bole, and Malfoy is a convenient excuse. I have my own theory, would you like to hear it?"

Judging from the nods, Professor Slughorn thought that they would.

"Given what I've heard about the attack, it seems that the Carrow sisters, who do have a reason to feel slighted, are offering …. certain incentives, or bounties." As he spoke, Slughorn carefully studied their faces and could tell that he was wrong. The dawning realization on Marcus Flint's face - the slow reveal that he probably could have asked for some favors - spoke volumes. But that same realization also meant that Slughorn had effectively punished those girls far worse than he could in any official capacity. He chuckled, more to himself than to keep up the charade.

"I thought as much. I was a young man, myself, and it's a rite of passage to allow yourself to be manipulated by some witch. You know the old saying, 'You can't fall into her arms without falling into her hands.' Ha! But, at some point you must be your own man. Why, get a reputation for doling out favors for any witch who just smiles at you ... well, you aren't a true Slytherin."

Terrence spoke up "Sir, it's not just..." Slughorn silenced him with a stare and a harrumph. He'd get the exact reason later, in his own time.

"I'm sure it's not just that, you may very well have legitimate complaints. But I expect them to be solved quietly. And I don't expect to listen to them myself, not today. If, in a week, a quiet week, you have complaints I'll take them up. But for now I want peace and quiet in my house. So I think we'll settle for just having you clean up this room as part of a detention, instead of discussing expulsions. Oh yes, I'm perfectly willing to clean house. And I find a more concrete mild threat now will often work when a distant but much greater threat doesn't."

"Greater threat, sir?" asked Boles.

"Why, with Lord Voldemort dead I can only think of three future dark lords, and you've managed to annoy them all during the last few weeks," said the Professor, easing out of his chair. "Scrub the glasswork well, and be sure not to spill any potions on you. It will burn through your skin. Give you some raging acne if you sniff too much of it, now that I think of it. You all know where everything goes, and I daresay it won't take you much more than four hours. I'll come check back after dinner." He strolled out the door.

"Three?" said Martin, as they glanced among themselves.

* * *

"Three?" said Gregory, sounding surprised.

"That's what Slughorn told them," said Daphne Greengrass, who'd heard about the entire incident the day before. The entire dating relationship of the upper classes had gone through a period of turbulence over the last twenty four hours, including numerous slaps, hexes, curses, pleading and breakups, although a few new relationships formed as well. The witches gossip network nearly collapsed from the strain of keeping up. "Said there were three future Dark Lords. I mean, I can see Potter and Draco, no offense."

"None taken," said Draco, with a small bow, where he sat on his bed, perusing the latest letter from Mother, "although I think he was just trying to convince them to back down."

Daphne, sitting in Draco's chair at the desk, nodded. "Well, obviously, but that still begs the question as to who the third Dark Lord would be."

Gregory paced slowly. "Granger? I mean, I can't see it, although it would be somewhat great," Draco looked up at him quizzically, "I mean, come on. A Dark Gryffindor? With a Phoenix? And she likes us. We could do a lot worse, you know," Draco went back to reading his letter with a sigh and Daphne just shook her head. "I did say _somewhat_ great," Gregory said, morosely.

"If it were me," said Draco, "it would just be a mind game. Slughorn didn't mean anyone in particular, he just knew that everyone expects there to be one or two, so by saying three he makes them all stop and think. Which is probably a novel experience for them, but sadly not habit forming. In any case, I can't think of another _credible_ Dark Wizard of our generation..." Draco's voice trailed off for a second, then picked back up. "I mean, certainly we could have one, but nobody seems like a threat yet. No, he was just messing with them."

"You sound like you've just convinced yourself," said Daphne. "But you haven't convinced me. In any case, I figured you'd want to know. Do you have any idea why they targeted you?"

"Thank you," said Draco. "As to why, simply because they can. They've gotten a few shots in, but not enough to claim victory. Now it's more about honour than any reason."


	17. The Halo Effect

_"Do not get greedy. Have partners share your gains. This provides allies against losses." - Lucius Malfoy  
_

The Bayesian Conspiracy met after dinner at least once a week, tonight's session had just passed the two hour mark.

"All of these ideas," said Neville, "they let us check a solution. But they don't help us come up with the answer." Harry just raised his eyebrows and looked around the table, like he did when he wanted people to come up with the solution themselves.

"Coming up with a solution is harder," said Draco, "But checking it is easy. Does it work is yes or no. How does it work, that could be anything."

"Proving a solution is like a fixed Transfiguration," Hermione offered, "you go from stone to wood and back. But even that requires lots of different spells, hundreds for every form combination. Free transfiguration can do anything, but we all know how hard that is." Hermione felt smug having worked out the metaphor. She missed being in class and getting the right answer, even though she knew it was somewhat small of her.

Harry finally spoke up, "And coming up with a solution is really hard. Even I don't get it right often. But what I do is that I check my solution instead of just trying it, and that lets me discard my failures faster, and then I try again. If nobody sees you fail a few times," he chuckled," you'll get a reputation as being able to do anything by just snapping your fingers. I'm not always right, merely less wrong. And to most people that seems like magic."

Harry's mirror made a buzzing noise, and he took it out and started a quiet conversation, then said "I think now's a good time to stop." Daphne checked the time and, letting out a small _eep_ , grabbed her scrolls and ran off. Draco jotted a few notes down on a scroll, planning to summarize and expand later in his journal.

"Draco," said Hermione, "Do you have a few minutes?"

He looked up, perplexed. "Sure. One second." He wrote a few more words, more reminders than detailed notes.

Harry said, "I'll see you later, everyone. I do have some things to do." He put away his mirror. Draco caught Hermione's look, but Harry just shook his head. "It's not that important." He walked out of the classroom, Neville beside him, and their voices drifted down the hall as Draco put down his quill and looked across the desk at Hermione.

Draco could see the telltale signs of the glamour, now. That should make her perfection less impressive, but it didn't. Knowing something on an intellectual level doesn't necessarily turn off emotions.

"How are things going, Draco?" she asked. Hermione stared at him intently, trying to read his reactions. She felt like she'd been getting better at reading people. Her magic helped her perceptions, if she focused on it. She really hoped that came from the Unicorn side of the enhancement, and not the troll side. She preferred not to think of herself as one-third Troll.

"Fine, Hermione. People miss you in class, of course."

"I find that hard to believe," she said, shaking her head, and noticing how Draco watched her hair.

"Oh, they thought they didn't want you in classes for the first few days." Draco's pitched his voice up like Pansy Parkinson. "Where's little miss know-it-all? Where can she be?" He dropped his voice back to normal, "but it turns out that when little miss know-it-all isn't there with the answer then the Professor could call on anyone, and that's worse."

"If you are Pansy Parkinson, sure," laughed Hermione, "I suspect you know the answers."

Draco smiled, "I said people missed you, Hermione, not that I did." Draco's smile looked relaxed, not forced, not beaming, but enough of a smile to show he was joking. She let out a little laugh, and Draco's smile relaxed a bit more. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"I'm worried about you," she said and Draco interrupted her with a wave.

"It's not that I don't appreciate what you did, Hermione, and I'm not going to lie and say I have it all under control, but it isn't helping my situation as much as you might hope and I think," Draco finally had to pause for a breath, just barely.

"I'm worried about you _and Harry_ ," Hermione said, exasperated.

"Oh." Draco paused and fiddled with his quill, thinking. "Why?" Between the pause and the interruption, Hermione felt pleased that Draco treated her more like a friend and less like a tool he manipulated. Or maybe Harry's abrasive manner had been rubbing off.

"Well, you live with him, but you don't trust him. He told me – please don't be mad – about the chess game, and the Slytherin duel before that."

Draco blushed.

"He didn't mention all of the parts of the duel, he is your friend after all. But I heard lots of gossip. Anyway, I understand why intellectually its hard to trust Harry, but can you please? I mean, I trust him. Doesn't that count for something?" Hermione considered batting her eyes, but she already felt guilty, using Draco's infatuation to help her gauge how much she should trust him.

"It does," Draco stammered, "of course it does. But … what we've been learning here is how keep our judgment when we're biased. If Harry were here, he'd say something like 'Hermione Granger is difficult to fool, which reduces the odds of Harry being a future Dark Lord significantly.'"

"But not to zero." Draco just nodded. "I understand that, Draco. That makes sense. In fact, Harry told me a story. After Professor Quirrell taught him to lose he asked if there was anything he could say to convince the Professor he wouldn't turn evil, and the Professor just replied 'You could raise your right hand,' meaning that there was nothing that someone as clever as Harry could say that would comfort him. So we have to judge Harry by his actions, not his words. And that's going to take time."

"I knew that," Draco said. "But it isn't just time. I can't judge Harry's actions if I can't see them."

"The time will come, things have to line up a bit first. Please, Draco, don't make it even more difficult for him."

Draco slumped in his chair. "Even more difficult?"

"You, you don't see it?" Her eyes semi-closed, "I get it now. He hides it from you, doesn't want to look weak. He runs off every time." Hermione thought, deciding if she wanted to reveal what she'd assumed Draco had already noticed. She said, "Boys!" with a snort. "Why don't they just talk instead of posture?"

Hermione saw Draco's bewildered look, and sighed.

"What did Harry tell you, about Voldemort? I have to ask because I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone details."

Draco got up and started pacing. "He didn't _tell_ me anything," Draco said, sounding slightly hurt. "But I have my guesses. I'm not sure how Professor Quirrell is involved, or any details really. But, well, they came up with a plan to bring you back and attack Voldemort. The Professor took the brunt of the attack, maybe sacrificed himself since he was dying. At the time, I didn't think you were involved at all, and that was just Harry being Harry, bringing you back somehow. But after the summer and what Gregory saw when you fought Flint …. I don't know. You've been hiding your powers haven't you?"

Hermione nodded slightly. "I want to be treated like a normal girl, not like Harry was treated. For as long as I can."

"So, I'm not sure anymore exactly who defeated Voldemort, but Harry was there, if not the driving force. Despite the fact that he appeared to not be there."

"How do you think he did that," she asked.

Draco shot Hermione a look, and then said. "I have some theories. But he hasn't told me how. I don't think he'll ever tell me, and I'm OK with it. I'd like to know the details, of course..."

"And that's it? Harry didn't tell you anything else? Professor Quirrell _died_. You never thought to ask yourself if Harry got away without a scratch?" Hermione had an edge in her voice, and saw Draco's shock. She realized that no, he hadn't actually asked himself. Which wasn't too surprising. Harry never seemed to get scratched. Before she died Hermione had seen Harry scared, but never actually hurt in some surprisingly dangerous situations. And everyone had been so young. Harry explained that most people never thought about death (and by extension, injury) until they'd seen it first hand. There was no reason Draco would be different.

"Wait, you have a Phoenix. Harry built Peverell Hospital. Whatever happened to him is fixed." Draco's voice had a note of accusation.

"Have you ever heard of hypergraphia, Draco? People with it suffer a compulsion to write things out. They can't stop writing, not until they are exhausted. Harry doesn't have that, exactly, but he got cursed in the battle. You know he was already a bit obsessed and his methods made him …. odd. But now it's more of a compulsion. He literally can't do things unless he reasons out all of the consequences." Harry wouldn't be happy about this, Hermione thought, but it was a close enough explanation to be true.

"What kind of curse does that?" Draco asked.

"The kind that Voldemort casts, specifically designed to slow down Harry Potter. No, I don't know why Voldemort didn't just kill him. Maybe he worried about the spell rebounding, like it did when Harry was a baby. Voldemort cast a curse that would hurt Harry more than anyone. And now Harry has to spend hours and hours making decisions that he could have made in a second last year. He's …. too rational, maybe."

Hermione paused. "I guess you don't see it because he's exhausted when he goes back to his dorm. And he's not making decisions then, not really. He's just teaching and hanging out with the few friends he has left. _I think_ Harry would say that the odds that Draco Malfoy is actually a good person and Harry's friend have shot up dramatically, so I just want you to give him time and not do anything rash."

Draco gathered his notes and they both got up to head out. "I wasn't planning on doing anything rash," Draco said defensively. Draco opened the door, quickly glancing at the empty hallway.

"Nobody ever does," Hermione said as she walked through the door.

"I suppose not," said Draco, shutting the door behind him.


	18. Asymmetric Warfare, Part 1

_"When you strike you have either won decisively or planned poorly." - Lucius Malfoy_

 _Quietus._

Draco stalked the non-Forbidden Forest, feet shuffling along the ground. The starting gong had echoed off ten or fifteen minutes ago, so the enemy could be nearby. Walking normally meant stepping on leaves and that meant noise, _quietus_ or no _quietus_. Pushing leaves around made _less_ noise and Draco dare not advertise his position, not when he was outnumbered by ... however many it was now.

* * *

The second year army assignments had gone much smoother than expected: _everyone_ felt outraged, in roughly equal measure.

The Generals hadn't aroused much complaint. Neville Longbottom took over as General of Chaos Legion to nobody's surprise.

Parvarti Patil had been named General, which annoyed Padma to no end. "She wasn't even a Lieutenant last year, much less a second in command! This is blatant favoritism by Professor Lockhart. He was annoyed that there were no Gryffindors in command last year," she told every Slytherin in first, second and most of third year in the day after the announcement.

As it happens Padma was perfectly correct in her assertion. The Headmistress would never dream of influencing anything so unimportant as Generals and hadn't done anything of the sort, apart from a friendly chat with her newest colleague-slash-employee, and may or may not have expressed interest in a full time position once this year's non-Professor job expired. Not that it had been necessary, the Head of House Gryffindor needed no encouragement. But everyone knew that Padma had not one shred of evidence. It was simply the latest in a never-ending war between twins. Her classmates merely rolled their eyes and listened quietly for the first day until she was pulled aside by none other than Pansy Parkinson and told to cool it.

Parvati took the name of Sunshine, which nobody can prove she did just to annoy Padma further.

That left General Zabini, who retired the name of Dragon Army in favor of Basilisk Army, that being the most deadly serpent not already claimed by a rival.

Draco took great pains to distance himself from the selection process. He'd publicly recused himself and - due to Zabini's elevation - most students felt he'd actually _not_ been involved. But every former Captain, Colonel, Lieutenant, Squad Suggester or would be Brigadier of Sunshine, Chaos or (the now defunct) Dragon army felt slighted - at least a little bit - even if they hadn't wanted the job, hadn't expressed interest or demonstrated competence, and many expressed their unhappiness to Draco at some point in the last few weeks.

(Unremarked throughout the entire previous year: not a single soldier of any army among all seven years held the title of Private or Corporal, although General Diggory's troops nicknamed him Sergeant after his habit of barking commands in a very un-Diggory manner, but they meant it well. In fact, no armies in _recorded history_ sported such a lopsided officer-to-enlisted ratio as the wizarding armies during Harry Potter's first year at Hogwarts. As Offense Against the Dark Arts classes formalized over the years, the ratio slowly trudged towards an even balance of officers to NCOs, although never anything like a Muggle army would recognize).

So, the naming of the Generals caused some controversy, but everyone forgot that comparatively minor uproar after Professor Lockhart announced he'd assign soldiers randomly.

"But I was in Sunshine last year," wailed Daphne of Greengrass, along with most of the female contingent of Sunshine Regiment. "Why would I want to be in Chaos? Or Dragon _oh you know what I mean Zabini, Basilisk whatever._ " Squad mates from all three armies wondered if they'd have to fight their former allies. Even Draco admitted that random assignments felt wrong. He _almost_ lobbied for special treatment, but just proposed that Generals be allowed a few trades, assuming that all involved parties agreed.

Professor Lockhart just smiled and said "Oh, you'll pick teams later, in the Spring," without answering any followup questions.

Worse yet, the assignments weren't made right away. Again Professor Lockhart said something about "not wanting them wasting their time practicing." So several weeks of anxious speculation passed, which Draco tried to use effectively by ignoring the whole debate. _Why waste time on events beyond my control_ , he thought. But he spent hours listening to complaints, unavoidable politeness which shouldn't have been required of his position, but accepted as part of _noblesse oblige_. Eventually, most students calmed down although the evening prior to the drawing Madam Pince threw Padma out of the restricted section of the library.

When asked what she was researching, Padma had only hissed "Contingency Plans."

Draco spent some time considering how to react to each assignment. Basilisk would be unpleasant, but at least then Zabini might ease up and just lord it over Draco for a few weeks and get it out of his system. Chaos and Sunshine each had their downsides, not the least of which was being in "Potter's" or "Granger's" army. Being in Sunshine would force him to walk on eggshells around Padma. Still, Neville had acquired a cachet over last year. And while they hadn't bonded, Draco and Neville had commiserated about family, so Draco felt relieved when he pulled Chaos's chit from the tumbler during selection day.

Yesterday. The day before the battle.

After selecting armies Professor Lockhart had announced that the first battle would take place Saturday.

"Tomorrow's fight," Professor Lockhart said to the shocked assembly, "will be a relatively simple affair. Well defined. Just a small battle to ease into the new year. Last year's battles suffered from a few flaws, primarily that you fought just to fight. Real wars, and real armies, have goals. Conquering a country, stopping a Dark Wizard, claiming a castle, stealing an artifact. Armies rarely just fight 'just because.' And while wars have goals, battles have smaller goals. Control of a key piece of terrain, kidnapping a hostage, and the like. We won't practice taking over the world any time soon, but for tomorrow's battle one army will defend a position in the forest against the other two armies. Will the Generals come forward?" Professor Lockhart motioned towards the bronze urn sitting on the lectern.

From the urn, General Zabini drew a red ball.

General Longbottom drew a black ball.

General Patil drew a second red ball.

"Chaos defends the forest and the treasure it holds!" said Professor Lockhart, handing a scroll to each general. "We begin at dawn! Feel free to practice anything, but standard curfew applies."

* * *

Draco froze and knelt down behind a fallen log when he heard voices. Two voices.

"Did you hear something?" That was Ernie MacMillan, now a Basilisk.

Ron Weasley said "I dunno, maybe from over there." Draco tried to move to get a better position, but when he shifted his weight he heard a small crunch under his foot. The voices stopped.

Damn. _Damn Damn Damn._ Draco heard a twig break crisply to his left. All three wizards froze. Draco saw a doe, frozen, staring off into the forest. Draco followed it's gaze and spotted the Basilisks. The doe paused, flicked an ear once, twice, then bounded away. Draco mentally kicked himself. _I spent hours thinking and had totally forgotten about that spell._

Draco pointed his wand at his own head and said, as quietly as he could, " _Anteoculatia."_

Draco's hair stood on end and tied itself into a small pair of horns, prickling his scalp. The weight made his head feel odd and Draco hoped this worked; he'd look stupid dying like this. Draco crawled besides the log, stomping hands and knees into leaves, letting his antlers poke up, barely visible. After shuffling for a bit he heard the other two start moving again, and no spells were fired in his direction.

Thankfully everyone had _some_ combat discipline; last year soldiers would shoot a deer - just because - even if it gave away their position.

Draco stopped, still mashing leaves with his left hand, and cast _Ventriliquo_ on a tree near where the doe had been.

He said "I heard something" in a conspiratorial whisper and the movement stopped. Draco poked his head over the log quickly and saw MacMillan and Weasley both crouching besides a tree. Although from their point of view they were _behind_ the tree, when judged by where Draco's voice sounded.

 _Stupefy_ Draco yelled. The sound still came from over to his left but the hex flew straight into Ernie's side and the Hufflepuff keeled over into crackling leaves. Draco cast again, but Weasley had seen the first hex hit and dove behind - actually behind - a tree.

"Over here! Over here!" Ron shouted. Draco quickly _finited_ his antlers then pointed his wand skyward and sent up a solid stream of red flares. He could hear the crackling as footsteps approached. Draco set up a _Prismatis_ shield and then bolted back into the forest, firing hexes blindly behind him for good measure.

* * *

After the selection, each General commandeered a nearby classroom. After warding the door to prevent eavesdropping, Draco joined the rest of the group. Neville, it turned out, had not prepared any inspiring speech or maybe just forgotten it. In any case he simply opened up the scroll and read it aloud.

" _Your army is outnumbered. Defend your only hope, the Magical MacGuffin, from both other armies starting at 9am until reinforcements arrive, which are expected at roughly noon. Your army is allowed into the forest at dawn. The other armies possess compasses to track the MacGuffin. That is all."_ The Scion of Longbottom seemed nervous.

"What's a MacGuffin?"asked Hannah Abbott.

"I think it's a small statue," said Seamus Finnigan and for some reason Anthony Goldstein just shook his head and said "Doomed. We are all doomed."

"No, we just have to figure something out," said Neville. "We're in the forest again, so visibility will be low. What else do we know?"

"Can we move the MacGuffin?" asked Crabbe. Draco felt relieved that he had at least one real friend in this army, but reminded himself this was another opportunity to make more allies. Vincent's question had spawned a mini-debate on the exact nature of a MacGuffin, and how could they use it. Draco leaned against the wall and considered the problem.

They had two opponents, but the opponents weren't coordinated. Draco realized he'd just assumed that, and had no idea if they were coordinated or not. or what the other two scrolls said. _This is the real test. We know the armies, but we don't know what anyone's goal is._

That brought options to mind. Could Chaos force the armies to fight over the MacGuffin? Was it useful, or just a flag to be captured? Could we move it? Draco didn't know.

"Merlin says 'Break into squads and come up with ideas,'" Neville suggested. Draco looked up, confused. "For those of you new to chaos, orders are just suggestions, unless I say 'Merlin says.'"

"You haven't assigned squads," Draco said. Neville just waved the room into four groups.

 _At least Vincent stood beside me_ , Draco thought as he glanced between Vincent, Anthony, Seamus, Hannah, and Padma.

* * *

Draco kept up a constant shout as he ran deeper into the forest, which was difficult, as he'd been running for nearly five minutes. A red hex flew three feet over his shoulder, high enough to miss his shield entirely and smash into a low hanging branch that Draco ducked under. He veered slightly to the right, still screaming, and jumped a small hill. He easily cleared Hannah, laying prone on the ground just behind the hill. Somewhere 20-30 feet to his right Vincent hid behind a tree.

Draco kept running until he heard Hannah scream _x`!_ , then quickly turned behind a tree and bent over, heaving and out of breath, more from the screaming than running. _I need to start working out with Vincent. Quirrell said we should learn physical martial arts anyway._ By the time Draco recovered the ambush was over. He walked back. "I can't tell you how _insulted_ I am that they never considered why I made so much noise," he said, between gulping breathes. Anthony Goldstein patted his back.

"Well done," Anthony said, as the first bolt came down from above. They dived as the three brooms flew overhead.

* * *

Draco let them all argue it out.

"Don't you have any ideas?" Anthony asked him. He'd been taking Draco's measure the whole time.

"Sure, but I'm not the General anymore. I'm relaxing." Draco had sprawled out in a chair, pushing the front two feet off the floor, leaning back. "How long would it take you to go through the forest, assuming you just walked it end to end and weren't worried about a battle? 30 minutes? An hour?"

They settled on forty five.

Draco continued, "OK, assume the MacGuffin is in the center, then that's twenty minutes to get to it for each army. Call it double that, since they'll have to move slowly. If we just sit and wait for them, no way do we last three hours."

"We ambush them as early as possible," said Hannah. "That will make them worry."

"We don't know what direction they'll come from. We'll have to scout out a position and spread out. How will we ambush them? If we concentrate they might move past us," Draco pointed out.

"Oh, I have some ideas on that," said Anthony.

* * *

Everyone dove to the ground, a few hexes flew into the treetops but the brooms were already gone.

"Gregory," said Vincent. "He waved as he went by." Gregory had drawn a Basilisk. He'd discussed it with Draco, prior to selection Wednesday night of last week. They both agreed not to go easy on each other. It would form resentment in the armies.

Gregory had added "And be less fun. Standard bet?"

Draco did not want to owe Gregory another Knut. They'd agreed to the standard bet, unless you _personally_ dispatched the other, in which case it was a full Sickle. Draco wondered if Vincent and Gregory had a side bet as well.

Draco sent up some Red flares.

"I don't think anyone in Chaos can see that," said Seamus, who had been looking among the fallen to see if any of them had a compass, scroll, or something obviously useful and part of the game, before _Ennervating_ Ron Weasley to wake the rest and send them off the field.

"Well, the guys on brooms may not know that," said Anthony, before Draco could speak up.

"Should I tell Neville?" Draco asked Vincent, who just nodded.

Draco took out his wand and got into the starting position.

 _Expecto Patronum!_ The rest of the squad, save Vincent, gawked. He ignored them and turn to his Patronus. "Find Neville. He's back at the MacGuffin. Let him know that we got five, no six, Basilisks but they've got at least three brooms patrolling. We're going back out."

Draco's silvery Blue Krait quickly slithered away, hovering a few inches above the ground. Draco turned back to the squad.

"What?" he said, in his most innocent voice.

* * *

"Does anyone know how to cast the Disillusionment Charm?" Draco asked the group, during their planning session. Nobody else knew. Malfoys started early on minor glamours to improve appearances, so this hadn't been much of a stretch to learn a few weeks ago, but Draco decided that he wouldn't reveal most of what he could do, not without good reason.

 _I should reveal my Patronus in the_ battle, he thought. It would make sense, be natural, provide a tactical advantage, and impress the others in a way that enhanced his prestige. Also, Draco's research into the Slytherin conspiracy against him had stalled, and this revelation would make people take sides publicly. Revealing his Patronus served several purposes. Revealing other important spells he knew didn't.

Draco considered what other charms he could use, out in the forest.

* * *

They were walking towards the eastern edge of the forest. "I don't see why everyone's so surprised. I was a General. Didn't I personally dispatch you in our 3rd battle last year Anthony? And that was a hell of a shot, and not a first year spell, either. So _the one time_ it takes me longer than other people you just naturally assume I can't cast a _Patronus_." Draco put on a hurt look. "I'm not angry, just disappointed."

"You can quit with the act," said Seamus, motioning to the canopy above. "Let me have a look."

Draco nodded. _Wingardium Leviosa._ Draco lifted Seamus up besides a tree, keeping an eye out. The other four spread out, facing outwards.

"I see a few brooms, ah crap, they see – " Draco lowered Seamus as several red and green bolts snipped through the canopy, sending leaves floating gently down. Draco sighed and carefully placed Seamus' limp body to the ground. He could hear feet from the east. A lot of feet.

"Attack?" he asked.

" _Sonorus!_ " said Vincent, wand pointing at his feet. (They'd learned you could amplify sounds other than your voice, thanks to some pre-battle experiments). He rushed forward, screaming, and the sounds of his feet echoed. Draco followed suit, charging slightly to the right. Maybe they'd make Basilisk think they were fighting the entire Chaos Legion.

Padma, Hannah and Anthony followed quietly between them, looking for ambush positions.

"Remember," Anthony whispered, "Retreat in two minutes. Tops." Draco spotted movement ahead and fired a breaking drill hex wildly in that direction. He spotted four, no five more shapes in his area. It was the whole Basilisk army. Draco figured he'd get two of them, maybe three. Assuming Gregory didn't spot him first.

He'd have to attack hard, to really sell the ambush when he retreated.

Draco smiled. He hadn't realized how much fun it was, having the odds against you, worrying only about the moment.

It removed the pressure. A bit. Draco saw Theodore Nott and aimed, mumbling "Got you."


	19. Asymmetric Warfare, Part 2

_"People promise according to their hopes, but perform according to their fears." - Lucius Malfoy_

They came just after midnight, hours after the battle ended.

By tradition - almost as old as Hogwarts itself - Slytherin plots inside the dorms were limited to maneuvering. No fights, no thefts, no duels (saving Slytherin Duels) took place in the Dungeons itself. A Slytherin could rest safely inside his room, inviolate, protected by tradition. Pranks occurred, but actual attacks were unheard of.

Draco heard a quick shout, then _Somnium!_ cast three times. Gregory slumped off his bed just as Draco's eyes opened, then his sight was cut off quickly, a bag placed over his head, and a few punches thrown in for good measure. There were voices, muffled voices, and Draco was carried away. Thoughts of _they wouldn't dare_ mixed in his head with a voice that replied _they did_. Draco thought they were taking him upstairs, but they doubled back and went down. Draco could tell they passed through the common room, and now the voices spoke up, more jovial. _How many were there?_ The hands holding him circled his biceps easily. Older students. _His wand_? Probably dropped besides his bed. _The Sigil?_ Draco thought for a moment, then decided to hold that in reserve.

 _They mean to scare me. Not kill me._ Thinking it didn't make it less scary.

Eventually they threw Draco into a chair and ripped the bag off his head. There were just three assailants, Draco thought there would be more, but just three. _Maybe some had left?_ The wall torches flickered behind his captors, they hadn't bound him but then again he had no wand, and they were upper years. Draco could see the stairs leading up and out, but couldn't make it past them. They wore black robes and black gloves, but plain white masks shone dimly in the reflected torchlight.

There didn't seem to be anything worth saying, at this point.

The tallest one cast _Petrificus Totalus!_ Draco went rigid in his chair, but didn't quite slide out of it. His breathing grew more ragged, shallow. Two others started casting _Frigidero_ while the tall one created water and doused Draco repeatedly. Their voices were distorted and impossible to recognize, but Draco didn't think the tall one was Robert Jugson. A bit too round. Maybe he was just hoping, though. Draco started shivering and, as the temperature got colder, panicking.

It hadn't been real, his duel last spring with Hermione.

He hadn't actually been cursed by a Blood Cooling charm. But fake memories feel just as vivid as real ones. Draco remembered lying on the wooden floor, shivering and unable to move. He remembered getting so cold that he felt hot, wished he could slip out of his robes but limbs too tired to move, teeth not so much chattering as vibrating.

After a few more spells his captors seemed satisfied. Draco shivered but it wasn't that cold, nothing compared to the Blood Cooling curse. The tall one kicked Draco's feet up, he slid out of the chair and cracked his head against the stone floor and his vision exploded into lights.

"Now, you just stay here and think about how we don't need saving. We've gotten along fine without Little Lord Malfoy and we'll do it again this year." They doused him a few more times, cast a few more Frigidero spells, and extinguished the torches. Draco shivered, alone, and tried to get his breathing under control.

* * *

"Over here!"

Draco focused and saw Harry's face over him as several spells freed him and warmed him up. Gregory, a hard look on his red face, burst down the stairs followed by Padma Patil, wand out. A second later, Colin Creevey came. Gregory helped him up, then handed him his wand. Draco pulled himself into the chair, not really listening to any of the questions or comments. Potter was saying something about contacting the Headmistress.

"You can't, Harry," Draco said, "You _know_ you can't. No! You handled your bullying yourself."

"General," said Padma, reaching out and touching his still wet sleeve, "this isn't just bullying. All the upper classman, in the common room, you know what they were doing this morning? Casting _Aquamenti_ and _Frigidero_. To put out the fire, they said."

Draco realized the implication. _Any inspection of wands will hide the culprits. A show of solidarity, against me._ Draco took his wand and dried himself, fixed his clothes, hid his bruises. .

"I suppose I should lose," he said calmly. "There's too many of them and they are unified, apparently. They aren't playing by any rules. It's the smart play." Draco, who spent last night remembering the false memory of his near death, felt his blood run cold. "I suppose I should." Draco made his decision and quickly went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, as Harry shouted after him. Gregory ran behind him, whispering in his ear.

"Calm down. Don't do anything rash. _We can handle them_ , if you think about it. We've been doing well, we just misjudged. We've got allies, we need to figure what to do." Gregory's words ended when they made it to the public area, the common room full of laughing upper class students who smiled and waved, overly amiable. Padma hadn't exaggerated much, if at all.

Harry Potter came up the stairs just in time to see Draco, face composed, walking back into the common room with Gregory by his side. Gregory's wand was out, as was Draco's. Draco's left hand held his cane, he tapped it slightly along the ground as he walked.

Harry reached for his wand. Padma, seeing Harry's motion, drew hers as well. Draco walked over to a large upperclassman. The room hadn't gotten quiet, students still chuckled as Draco stopped in front of MacNair, sitting in a plush chair.

Draco's right hand came up and pointed his wand at the boy, who gave a bemused smile and said with mock indignation "Why Malfoy, what has gotten..." Draco brought down the cane hard against the floor.

With a loud _crack_ , Draco Malfoy and Michael MacNair disappeared from the Slytherin Common Room.

* * *

In the white haze MacNair reached for his wand and Draco lifted up his cane, shoving the head against the older boy's cheek. Michael gave a start as he realized the snake head was hissing, fangs bared.

"Do you know, Michael, we keep a Krait at Malfoy Manor. It's the symbol of my house, but don't you think that's carrying it a bit far? Who keeps a deadly snake as a pet? Around small children? Why would you do that? I never really considered it until I got this. I wouldn't reach for your wand." Draco moved the cane up slightly, and now the fangs dominated Michael's view, a scant inch from his eye.

Michael's hand slowly slipped out of the robes. Draco lowered his cane, slightly.

"I honestly have no idea if you were the ringleader behind that stunt, a participant, or just found it amusing. I had plenty of time to think about it, but _I don't particularly care_. If I get attacked by _anyone_ in the future, I'm blaming you. It's nothing personal, but you're one of the oldest and strongest. Innocent or not, if I ruin your life everyone will think twice. Even if it costs me detention, expulsion or worse. The way I see it, if my life becomes a horror I may as well deserve it."

Draco could feel the strain of keeping them isolated draining him. Michael started to say something, but Draco didn't have time to make this a conversation.

"So if I get attacked by masked Slytherins I'm blaming you and we discover just how many friends are willing to avenge you. Well, I find out. You should probably keep that to yourself if you have enemies. I'd hate to encourage someone who hates us both."

"You just publicly attacked me," said Michael, who had found his voice.

"That just makes it interesting," said Draco, then added a sneer to his voice. "Just imagine, I'd be the first Malfoy to publicly get away with a crime everyone knew he committed." He dropped his voice back to normal. "And are you really just going to admit that I got the better of you in here?" The snake slowly retracted its fangs, closed its mouth and returned to its original form. Draco cracked the cane against the ground, and the Slytherin commons jumped back into view.

Draco turned and walked back to his room, ignoring Harry Potter's questions, while a visibly shaken MacNair settled back into his seat.

"What do you think that's supposed to accomplish?" asked Harry, when they were back in their room. Draco carefully set his cane back on his desk.

"Well, I doubt anyone will attack Gregory again, even if they attack me. That's got to count for something."

"Look, we're in this together," said Gregory

"You can't just threaten," said Harry over him, then they both stopped. Draco's eyes shifted between them, and he realized that Padma had started to follow them in, but had stopped in the doorway. He waved her in. Colin Creevey, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen.

"Did I threaten anyone?" said Draco. "Did you see me threaten anyone? MacNair won't say anything. That's not how things work."

"Yes, just like we are always safe in our dorm," said Gregory. "I don't think we can rely on that anymore. I'm not saying it was a bad move, whatever you did."

"You escalated," said Harry. "But I understand. I've done my share of things that weren't smart."

"Just because it isn't the smart play," said Draco, "doesn't mean it was wrong."

Padma let out a sigh. "What can we do to help?"

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- Lucius's Quote is actually by La Rochefoucauld.


	20. Acting Headmistress

_"Always remember: others may hate you, but those who hate you don't win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself." - Lucius Malfoy_

(Acting) Headmistress McGonagall looked down at the young Malfoy boy sitting opposite her desk. He'd gawked at the various devices scattered around the room, which was only natural. She'd done the same when she'd first been in the office as a student, and during her interview. It had taken years to get used to their strange presence. McGonagall spent an hour every day during the summer investigating them, to no avail. Every item had an obvious purpose or was totally inscrutable. From the dial with eight hands, to a small bulb that changed colors imperceptibly slowly and smelled of oranges, to weirdly shaped thing that _vrooped_ once every few weeks, Minerva had no idea what they did. Worse, she'd begun to suspect that her very desk was more _in-_ than _-scrutable_. She'd appreciated the sherry that had turned up in the lower left drawer the second night of school, but it certainly hadn't been there that morning.

Draco Malfoy had gawked.

But unlike other children summoned to the office - she still thought of it as Dumbledore's office - Draco Malfoy didn't glance around worriedly. He didn't tremble, or sweat, or reveal any nervousness. She'd left him sitting there because _that's what you did_ to children summoned to the office, checking in a mirror to make sure you looked every inch the Headmistress. But when she'd swept into the room and sat down Draco wasn't examining the room to avoid her piercing stare - he'd already made eye contact, held it for a beat, then released it.

Draco's examination expressed polite interest in his surroundings, and no fixation. As soon as she spoke, Draco focused on her again.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, "I was going to assure you that you were not in trouble, but seeing as how you need no such assurance I will simply ask what exactly happened last night."

"A group of older students thought it would be fun to kidnap me from my room. They stunned Gregory, dragged me out, paralyzed me, and left me down in the dungeons for the night, after dousing me with water and lowering the temperature." Draco's voice held no bitterness, she noted. The reports described Draco calmly composing himself before returning to the Commons and and disappearing with Michael MacNair.

"And how, pray tell, did they get past Mr. Potter as well." It wasn't really relevant, but Minerva had been dying to know. Harry dealt with bullies handily enough last year, she found it amazing that they could have gotten past him so handily.

"Oh, _he_ slept through the whole thing." Draco's voice took on a slightly nasal tone, just for a word or two, and then returned to normal. But he did smirk, some private joke. "Harry can sleep through anything."

"And as to what happened this morning?"

"For which I am assuredly not in trouble," Draco said, making it sound like a statement instead of a question. "I decided that I would have some words with Michael MacNair. I suspect he knows the ringleader, if it isn't actually him. Obviously it had to be a private conversation, to be effective. He couldn't very well tell me the culprit in public. But he chose not to reveal that information."

The annoying thing, Minerva thought, was that it could all be true. If only Draco had flown off into a rage and attacked someone she would have understood. But he seemed so calm and had enough ready answers that she felt her anger slowly rising. She tried to keep it from her voice.

"And did you threaten Mr. MacNair?"

"I let him know that I considered him culpable, and that he should use his considerable influence to handle the situation. Did he say that I threatened him?" Draco sounded mildly intrigued by the thought, and Minerva had to clamp down to keep her anger in check.

"Mr. Malfoy. I rather like you, despite your Father. As Deputy Headmistress I would have never dared say that. But as Acting Headmistress... I find I shouldn't behave the same way." She paused and tried to gather her words, arrange them correctly. "Right now the family resemblance is striking. But you don't remind me of the first or second year Lucius Malfoy, a charming lad like yourself. Now you look like a smaller version of the cold, calculating seventh year that I despaired of redeeming."

Draco's voice took on a hint of sadness. "Last May I knew that I would be Lord Malfoy some day, but that was the distant future, too far away to imagine. It didn't _affect_ my thinking much. Having it suddenly thrust upon me, at such cost...I suppose it has," Draco's voice trailed off.

"Still, I think you should hold onto our childhood for as long as you can. If there is anything I can do to help." She saw Draco's eyes flash, but he just shook his head. She sighed. "Well then, about your cane."

"Yes, Headmistress?"

"There is some concern that a student as young as yourself should not have such a powerful device."

"Openly, you mean." A small twitch of disapproval escaped before she clamped down on her reaction. Draco continued, "Hermione has the good sense to leave her Phoenix in her dorm. That sort of thing. But I haven't taken my Sigil to classes."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Malfoy, You must send it home."

Draco considered for several seconds. "That cane ... what I did, provides everyone a convenient excuse to leave me alone. They can't back down from someone so young. Just like the bullies couldn't back down from S.P.H.E.W. last year. They have to escalate against me, but against something scary and unknown? Against the symbol of my house? They can all quietly agree to let the matter drop and give up the fight without losing face. Without relying on your office or Harry Potter or anyone else."

"Professor Slughorn is certainly capable of controlling his house," she said with more conviction than she felt, and resolved to have a long discussion with Horace about what had been going on in Slytherin.

"Not like Professor Snape," said Draco. "He needs more time, and I need time."

McGonagall considered this. "If all you need is a symbol, I don't see a problem with that." She opened up a drawer and started pulling out a surprising array of objects, shoving others aside, and them mumbling to herself before finally revealing what looked like a beater's club, but slightly longer and flatter. The Headmistress took out her wand and waved it over the club, and it _shifted_ in form to the size of Draco's cane. A few more swipes of the wand and the two objects appeared identical, although the Headmistress could feel the difference, the power in the original cane.

"I will keep your cane here for the time being, or you can have it sent home. This," she said, handing him the Transfigured club, "should work admirably as your replacement. I advise against trying to transfigure anything for so long, Mr. Malfoy. I doubt someone so young could handle the strain, and this club has certain enchantments that will allow me to maintain it at a distance until Christmas break."

Draco took the cane, judging it's heft. He nodded, sadly, while the Headmistress continued. "If you need to beat someone over the head with it _in the heat of the moment_ I will take into consideration the fact that I removed a more subtle option. I should give you detention, you realize, for your comments," she sighed, "and I most certainly would except for the fact that it would encourage your tormentors. You may go."

Draco got up to take his leave when she added, "I do want you to know that I regret what I said about your Father at Hermione's trial. I meant it, but it was in a moment of extreme stress and I certainly did not consider that it might reach your ears. I wish you to be the delightful child I remember instead of the man he became. If not forever then for as long as possible. You may go."

Draco, who had frozen during her speech, made a small bow. "I understand. Thank you, Headmistress," he said, turning to leave.

"Acting Headmistress, Mr. Malfoy," she automatically corrected.

"Acting Mr. Malfoy, Headmistress," he replied sadly as he walked out the door.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- Lucius Malfoy's quote was also said by former U.S. president and honorary Slytherin Richard Nixon.


	21. October

_"When paying for information, you will frequently overpay._

 _This is unavoidable, and do not fret about it (unless tricked)._

 _Consider it a balance for the times a crucial fragment falls into your lap because the seller is unaware of its value.  
_

 _After all, If you knew how much to pay, you wouldn't be buying."_

 _\- Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

"Anyway, the trick to it is to flick your wand right as you..." Blaise Zabini froze when Harry Potter walked into the second year boys' room. Theodore Nott looked over his shoulder, following Blaise's eyes.

Harry asked "Theodore. Am I interrupting? I'd like to talk to General Zabini."

"We can finish later," Theodore said. "It's no problem."

"Thanks," said Harry. "Do you mind if we walk? I have to go somewhere and this way we won't be disturbed..." Blaise stood up, smoothing out his robes, and walked beside Harry. They quickly went through the common room, past the prefect's room, and into the dungeons. All through the trip Potter asked his opinion about last weekend's battle. The fourth year armies had fought on the roof of Hogwarts, but hadn't been allowed any brooms. Blaise recognized it as small talk, which did seem like Potter's typical style.

"Anyway, General," said Harry, "What I _really_ wanted to talk about is a small conspiracy I'd like you to join. We're disguised as a study group. I suppose we're actually studying something." They crossed the creaking bridge over the main stream, air brackish but not unpleasant. Harry quieted as they passed three first years returning from classes.

"What do you study?" Blaise asked. His brown eyes warily darting around. Potter was Draco's friend and had a reputation narrowly outrunning the chaos which followed him constantly around, but this didn't feel like a trap. Still, you couldn't be too careful.

"Decision making. Science. Problem solving. How to think and how to avoid mistakes. 'Rationality' is the technical term." They passed the Bloody Baron, who was talking to several of the paintings lining the Hall.

Blaise considered for twenty-five steps. "That sounds useful. What's the catch?"

"There are two. First, You have to learn to admit mistakes. That sounds easy, but it's surprisingly hard. One conspirator likened it to a 'Dark Ritual,' you sacrifice the ability to lie to yourself. Lots of people can't do that, and they suffer mental anguish," Harry paused then took a lighter tone, "I prefer to think of it as growing pains."

They had exited Slytherin proper and stepped into the common dungeons. They'd diverted from the stone stairs that led up into Hogwarts, and went down a Hallway that glowed slightly with no apparent lights. Blaise recognized the area, Potions was here, but they passed that and went further down the hall, footsteps making small squeeking sounds as their damp footprints connected with the stone. Harry Potter stopped in front of a door.

"As for the second catch." Harry opened the door and walked into the classroom, Blaise following.

"Malfoy," Blaise said flatly, as Draco looked up from the desk, closing a small black book he'd apparently been writing in.

"Don't dismiss it out of hand," said Harry, "Draco suggested inviting you."

"So I can be your lackey?"

"I didn't have to invite you," said Draco harshly, "and lackeys are easy. I put your name up because you are going to be absolutely slaughtered in the battles if you fall too far behind. It's too useful. You have some weaknesses, and you can usually work around them, but Neville's joined and Potter's teaching his special _creativity_. That's a serious challenge, if Neville learns first. You have potential and this would help," Draco's voice held a hint of anger, "but if you are willing to throw an advantage away just because I'm involved..."

"You are in Chaos now. Why help Basilisk?" Blaise sounded incredulous, but he sat down.

"I wouldn't expect you to believe me, but Basilisk is the de facto Slytherin army and a poor showing looks bad. Not on me personally, but on everyone else. I'm not going to go easy on you if we meet on the field. But all of our armies aren't doing well. It would be nice to have one that everyone could rally behind."

"And of course you are trying to save our House," said Blaise.

Harry watched. He'd expressed worry, but Draco had been right that inviting Blaise could help Slytherin, even if he probably wasn't ready. Draco needed the ally, this would be Draco's olive branch. Harry wanted to jump in and argue this, but Draco had asked for his silence unless things looked hopeless. This might have normally presented a problem - keeping quiet wasn't Harry's strong suit - but some things Draco said tickled a memory, one that Harry couldn't quite place ...

"Yes. I have my plots," Draco was saying, "I've been fairly open about them. Look, I know you think it's not clever to reveal too much to others, and you think I'm making the same mistake. Maybe I am. I look confident on the outside, but sometimes I worry. Did Harry tell you about the cost of admitting you are wrong? It's a real cost, and ... well, maybe it cost me some confidence."

Harry's expression showed confusion, as he tried to remember why this seemed so familiar. It wasn't what Draco was saying, more like how he said it.

Draco saw Harry, but focused on Blaise who still had arms crossed in front of his body. Not a good sign, but he hadn't left yet.

"You don't know much about me," said Blaise. "You don't know what it's like, how I grew up."

"No," said Draco softly, "I just lost my Father recently. But I never excluded you. Not deliberately. Look, at the beginning of last year we were all scrabbling and jockeying. I had a head start. It's not fair, but you can't expect me to give up advantages."

"And you can't expect me to not resent that," said Blaise. "You ignored me, didn't even treat me like a rival."

"Look, I admit I've been distracted. In my defense, I was trying to keep up with the Boy-Who-Lived and the Girl-Who-Revived," Draco held up his hands, "although no, we didn't know that at the time. I was almost murdered! Nobody could compete with that. And, I swear I'll deny this if you ever say it, you are tough to read, Zabini. One day you act shy, lost in your own thoughts, and keep to yourself. The next day you're the life of the party. Most people I can get easily," Draco snapped his fingers, then shrugged. "But you...so yes, I do want your help in saving Slytherin and even just figuring out who is attacking me, but that's not a prerequisite. You are in for this if you want it. I'll even try to teach you the _Patronus_ spell, no strings attached. Although some people just can't learn it."

Blaise considered this, "Who else is in this group?"

"If you join you'll know. But if you do join and rat us out to the others, then you've made an enemy, and not just us." Draco sounded firm.

Blaise unfolded his arms. "No strings attached?"

* * *

Robert Jugson sat down next to Draco at the breakfast table. There was plenty of space, just Goyle, Greengrass, and Potter at this end of the table.

"Pass the croissants, please." Draco simply passed them across, then slid a small jar of strawberry jam along with it. Potter and Goyle were discussing the Slytherin Quiddich team's chances. Well, Goyle was talking about it and Potter merely asking a few questions. Robert Jugson ignored the looks from the other end of the table, where the upperclass students normally sat. Draco finished another piece of cantaloupe and took a sip of milk, washing away the fruit's sweetness, not rushing.

"I've been wondering, Mr. Jugson," Draco said, putting down his glass, "when do older students make career decisions? Goyle has his bright future as a professional Quidditch player, but what about the rest of us? How does it work, exactly? I mean, you graduate in the Spring."

Robert finished chewing on his croissant, then swallowed noisily. "I've been thinking about taking a job at Borgin and Burkes, I'd talked with pop about that ... earlier. It isn't difficult, they are family friends. But now it seems pointless. I'm going to spend a century showing wares to customers? It would be one thing if I owned the store. I've been talking to Professor Slughorn, my Potions grades are OK so he might be able to get me an apprenticeship at an Apothecary."

"Do you enjoy Potions," asked Gregory.

"Not really. But at least I'd be making something. Beats selling. In any case, Draco, I don't see that you have to worry. Your family has money."

"Not as much as we did, and a lot of it will be gone by the time I graduate. Best for me to start thinking of it now."

Draco was thinking about other opportunities.

* * *

Draco sat up with a start. He'd been asleep, face down. The room wasn't too dark, the full moon had already risen and he could read the letter he'd started, sitting by the desk next to his closed diary.

 _Mum,_

 _Of course your happiness is important to me - I do not think it is too soon - but I've already explained how precarious my position is and surely there are others_ ...

Draco crumpled the letter, he could never send that. He leaned down and picked his wand off the floor. What time was it? He groaned to himself, _Don't overexert, you need some rest_ and crawled into bed.

* * *

"Harry, is luck real? What's the scientific perspective?" Gregory said, not looking up from his game of (muggle) chess with Draco. Harry had ordered a Muggle set. Draco's pieces protested mightily at the thought of not using their full skills and had mutinied at the thought of obediently following orders. Draco and Gregory's first game where they physically moved the pieces resulted in a dozen small cuts and bites and after the Silver Queen collapsed in a few-blown tantrum they'd just given up and asked Harry for a set.

"Well. It's complicated," said Harry. "Variance is real. You have streaks of good events and bad events, however you define good and bad. Most people notice some of those streaks and forget the rest or the non-streaky balancing luck. So, from a strictly math point of view, luck just is." Harry paused. "Actually, being lucky is a psychological trait."

"How can that be?" asked Draco, game forgotten for a moment.

"They did studies on people who considered themselves lucky and those who thought they were cursed with bad luck. When it came to random chance - rolling dice or whatever - there was no difference. Random is random. Then they did _other_ tests, and in one of them the researchers handed each subject a newspaper and asked them to count the pictures. The lucky people got it much faster."

"How could they possibly do that?" said Gregory. Draco realized another nice benefit of muggle chess is that the pieces didn't grumble when you ignored them or took too long to move.

"One of the headlines said 'There are 37 pictures.' The answer was literally printed right there on the second page. The people who felt lucky were really just more attentive to non-traditional opportunities. Both groups had the same random things happen, but the 'lucky' noticed good things that happened to them. At least, that's the theory. The researchers built in a short cut, but the lucky people tended to notice it more The 'unlucky' people plodded along and counted the pictures, so focused on what they were _supposed_ to do that they never noticed the opportunity."

"Which means you can train yourself to be lucky, in a way," said Gregory.

Harry nodded. "That's what we've been doing. Learning how to think means learning to take advantage of unexpected situations."

Draco, grumbling, handed Gregory a Knut. Gregory chuckled and made his next move.

* * *

Michael MacNair stood in the depths of the dungeon, looking around at the robed figures. He put his hands on his hips, exasperated. "Look, I didn't care one way or the other before. Draco's a twerp, but our twerp. In case you didn't notice, Salazer practically invented arrogant and snooty. If anything, we need Malfoy as a bulwark against Potter, at least until Zabini comes around. I almost turned you into Professor Slughorn, and collected the bounty."

"But then everyone would think you were Malfoy's puppet, or scared," said Flora Carrow, sneering. "But we don't care why you're here, as long as you are now. Isn't that right?" The other six robes nodded. "We should attack him soon," came Hestia's voice, beside Flora.

"No," said Michael, "not now. We'd be expelled." The others gasped, apparently willing to risk grievous injury over expulsion, but he just continued. "I'm not just making this up, Slughorn told me himself at dinner the other night that he'd expel anyone foolish enough to get caught messing with Malfoy. He was very emphatic about that, _foolish enough to get caught."_

Another robe chimed in, voice husky and muffled by a spell, "We shouldn't hesitate. You can see him, making more and more allies every day. And not just the younger students..."

Michael cut off husky voice. "If we wait just a few weeks, I think we'll have an opportunity, and his allies won't matter."

The robes crowded in to listen.

* * *

Draco went flying through the air, then landed with an _oomph_ onto the soft grass. He rolled onto his stomach, robes smudged green and brown, and pulled himself onto his knees, slamming his fist angrily into the grass and taking in deep steady breaths.

"You expect too much," Vince said calmly, with no hint of reproach. "We've been training for years. You've only been practicing a few weeks. Give it time. Your stamina is getting better, too." They watched Gregory instruct Neville and Harry. "They aren't doing any better than you," he said in low tones, "and imagine how Gregory and I feel, seeing what you can do with a wand. A head start is a big deal. Mastery takes time."

Gregory was now sparring with the other two, and even Draco could see they didn't stand a chance, wouldn't stand a chance. But they had gotten better. Neville looked surprisingly comfortable, sparring, and Draco heard him singing "doom doom doom" quietly, before looking up.

"Harry," Neville said, dropping his guard, "The doom song is the bad guy's music!" Gregory chuckled.

"But it's catchy," retorted Harry, launching an attack that Gregory parried easily.

* * *

Harry came up from out of his trunk while they were doing homework. Draco and Gregory had agreed that Harry's habit of disappearing down there for hours on end was disconcerting, even though it made sense. He was carrying two books. Draco glanced at the spine of the top book and read off the title. _Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion._

"Draco, you did well with Blaise the other night," Harry said.

Gregory glanced over at Harry, then went back to the letter he was writing his mother.

"You sound surprised?" Draco's voice said, dripping with sarcastic hurt. "Seriously Harry, the trick with Blaise is to get angry with him, just a little. That let's him know that he's worth my time, that he's important. And he _is_ , just not as much as he hopes. Still, if he'd get over his inferiority complex from last year and those issues with his mother he could do well." Draco had gotten up and started pacing, as he normally did whenever he wasn't writing. Draco worried he spent too much time sitting down, and needed to stretch.

"You say _the trick_ like you used only one," said Harry, and now Gregory put down his quill and slid his chair around, interested.

"A conversation is like a sword fight," said Gregory, "even I know that. How long were you talking? Of course you'd have lots to discuss."

"No," said Harry, dropping one book on his bed and flipping through the hardcover, "I meant technique. It's like you were cold-reading Blaise, I know it's in here somewhere." He kept flipping through pages.

"Cold reading?" Gregory asked.

"Trying to get someone to believe you know a lot about them when you've never met them. Tricking them into telling you stuff and making them think you've said it first."

"But Draco already knows Blaise," Gregory protested. "Why would he need to do that?"

Draco nodded. "Of course I know all about Blaise. As for techniques? Well, let's see. I empathized with him, I showed some weakness but not too much. Admitting that I wore a mask and wasn't as confident as I looked. That let him view us as similar, so more empathy although strictly speaking that's a separate technique. Finding connections between us, points of similarity. Although Blaise brought up the fact that we're both Fatherless first. Let's see ... I appealed to his vanity. I didn't try to hide the fact that I stood to gain something from this. I threatened him if he revealed us which treated him as an equal. What else ... I maybe garnered sympathy with almost being murdered, though I doubt that worked. And standard compliments."

Harry stopped flipping his book pages. "Standard compliments? _Standard_? I found it. Have you ever heard of the Forer Effect? Or P.T. Barnum?" Draco and Gregory both shook their heads. "I suppose not. Is there a Wizard book you learned this from?"

Draco shrugged, he'd stopped pacing and stretched out his arms above him, pulling them back behind his head, and his spine made a slight crack. "Ah! Better. No, just tutors and Father. Why?"

"Forer demonstrated that people would believe you possessed deep insight into their personalities if you just gave vague, slightly contradictory compliments. You know, stuff like 'Sometimes you feel shy and sometimes you feel outgoing.' You don't say how often, but everyone feels shy sometimes and outgoing other times. Even the biggest introverts and extroverts, even if they don't act on it. You said _exactly_ that to Blaise and that's a _standard compliment_?"

Harry thrust the book underneath Draco's nose, pointed to Forer's list. Draco read it.

"I wouldn't use the one about sexuality for another few years. I assume Forer was older when he made this? And I wouldn't dare call Zabini's expectations unrealistic, given the circumstances, although they are. He's no Dark Wizard, whatever he thinks. He's not even a Minister of Magic - although I suppose if he works hard and stays useful - and I doubt Blaise is aiming lower than that. Good list, though."

He passed the book over to Gregory, while Harry spoke up, voice rising dramatically.

"Practically _everything_ you said to him was on this list! You used five of these compliments directly. You implied at least two … no three more! Now that I think about it, you used one on yourself, which would create empathy. I'd read this before and I still couldn't remember exactly what struck me as odd until I read it again. How do you know all that?"

"People skills," Draco said in a mocking tone. He'd always wanted to throw that line back into Harry's face, and now seemed like a good time.

"Good list," Gregory agreed, handing Harry the book back and returning to his homework.

* * *

"Did you ever notice," said Ginny as she walked out of the first year lecture, passing General Malfoy in the rush to leave class, "that the train ride and first day of school seemed to last forever, but then time just started flying?"

"Of course it does," said Luna airily, "It always does that. The calendar shows all days as equal squares, but that's just a conspiracy perpetrated by gnomes and airlines. Some days are much much longer than others, of course. Why, some days can be longer than entire months."

In her office, Minerva McGonnagal dropped what she was doing and ran over to inspect her strange semi-cylinder, which had suddenly made _that noise_ again.

* * *

Draco walked around Peverell, this time in the recovery lounge. He watched as several wizards who'd just taken the cure woke up and went to one of the full length mirrors to examine their recovered youth. They gasped, jumped up and down, shouted and laughed as they examined themselves. Several Aurors, including Li, watched as orderlies brought in still unconscious patients into the newly emptied beds. People didn't need long to recover from the treatment.

Alastor Moody appeared through the doorway from the visitor area, passing one of the exiting patients and growling as he spotted Draco.

Draco did a double-take, recognizing the stance Harry used that morning in the dungeons after Draco's abduction. Moody held his wand up high, near eye level. Just like Harry had. Mad-Eye spun around on his heel, taking in the full room, then barked 'Boy!' as he finished the circle. Draco jumped despite himself, then calmed down.

"Don't like these tests," said the grizzled Auror, "and it's not like you lot are going to think of something I've forgotten."

Draco was inclined to agree, but simply said "Good morning, sir," as politely as possible.

"If you want to do something useful for me," said Moody, "you can just tell me about your cane." Draco started to answer, sneering, when he felt the colors of the world invert, like the room had turned to black with only white outlines. A second later, it snapped back to normal. "That's what I thought," said Moody stomping off even as Draco started yelling after him.

"How dare you!" Draco said, not moving. "Students aren't to be abused by wizards who imagine themselves as warriors of justice ..."

"This isn't Hogwarts, lad. And quiet, or I'll turn you into a ferret," he said, stomping off. Draco, still spluttering, turned to an appalled Auror Li, who just shrugged.

* * *

"Harry, he read my mind! We've got to do something about it! That's not right, you more than anyone must see that." Draco's voice, normally so calm, seemed strained, which made sense. A Malfoy must value secrets more highly than almost anyone, and to have them stolen...

Harry sat on his trunk, reading, a concerned look on his face. He'd already heard Alastor's report about the cane. Draco could disappear with it, could make the cane seemingly come to life and - most intriguingly - summon it. And Draco hadn't been lying earlier to Harry, Draco was still investigating the rest of the powers. Alastor had wanted to investigate more, to dig deeper into Draco's mind. He'd said there was "something strange about that's boy's mind," but he'd followed Harry's instructions and only looked for information about the cane. _Well, that's what he told me, at least._ Moody had asked to investigate further, but Harry had said no, sick at having to have checked in the first place.

Now he had to mollify Draco.

"What do you expect me to do about it," Harry asked plaintively. "I mean, he's technically correct. You were at the hospital, not on school grounds."

"I'm not a fool, Harry. I know you can do something. You _consult on security,_ so he must listen to you, whether he likes it or not. And you aren't in second year classes, or even third or fourth. I've asked around. And if you aren't in classes you've got pull with the Headmistress. _I don't mind this, I don't care about your secrets, I just want you to use your power!_ You and Hermione are both Heads of a Noble House. You could go in front of the Wizengamot and demand redress. I could do it, too, but it would take longer and"

"I need him," said Harry, face flushed. "I wish I didn't, he's got a bad reputation, but you don't hire veelas to run security. You hire cranky old ex-Aurors who'd just as soon as invade your privacy as kill you."

Draco looked at Harry, "Well, I'm not going back there then. Apparently I'll just use my extra time to study for my O.W.L.S. and go in front of the Wizengamot myself."

" _I will not go around provoking strong and vicious enemies_ ," Harry said in his best imitation of Professor Quirrell.

"How did I provoke him?" screeched Draco. "He's been after my family for years, well before Voldemort came along."

"And your family did nothing to draw his attention? Sorry, that's not fair to you," said Harry. "But I'll talk to him, get him to back down."

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- The opening quote is based on a quote from economist (and youngest winner of the Nobel Prize in economics) Kenneth Arrow. "The value of information is frequently not known in any meaningful sense to the buyer; if, indeed, he knew enough to measure the value of the information, he would know the information itself." This is similar to puzzles where knowing that a solution exists (or that another party has solved it), leads to the correct solution.


	22. Reflections, Part 3

_"Father, if Voldemort was so powerful, why did he need any Death Eaters?"_

 _"He lacked the patience for administration. Also, he needed an audience to truly enjoy himself."_

\- Conversation between Draco and Lucius Malfoy, circa 1989

* * *

Draco paced back and forth, staring at the blank wall. It had been a risk, ditching Gregory, but the entire castle was out celebrating Harry Potter Day – except for Harry himself, who had disappeared into his chest after breakfast – so Draco felt safe from ambush. And in any case, he had his liquid luck and wand out, he'd simply stun anyone he saw.

Draco paced back and forth, staring at the featureless wall. Harry told them to make bold predictions. Draco had decided to make the boldest one he could – _this room appeared in response to student's desires, and fulfill them … somehow._ You had to really need it, not just find it convenient. There was no reason for this to be true, or at least for this prediction to be any more true than some other one. But, Draco remembered what the Weasley twins said about summoning the Sorting Hat, so it wasn't entirely unprecedented.

If Draco's prediction didn't pan out, he'd learn something. And if it _worked_ … invaluable.

Draco started his experiment. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

 _I really need to know if Harry Potter will turn out to be a Dark Lord. It's the most important question I can ask, not just for me but for everyone, and there's no easy answer. I need to know._ Draco took several deep breaths, concentrating.,When he opened his eyes Draco saw a small, solid door in the blank wall. Draco blinked again, then quickly opened the door. Before, where there had been a clean, polished bathroom complete with sinks and a sauna, stood a small wooden room.

Draco stepped inside, closing the door behind him, when he heard the voice.

"Hello, Tom," said Albus Dumbledore.

Draco froze. "Headmaster?" Draco ran forward and saw a giant piece of glass floating gently in the middle of the room, a portal to another room. Dumbeldore stood in the other room, just beyond the portal, which was surrounded by a gold frame. The frame anchored the room around it, as if it alone was real and the two rooms, the one Draco stood in and the one Dumbledore occupied, were merely illusion.

Draco stopped, frozen by Albus Dumbledore's piercing glare.

"They said you were lost. And how did you know about..."

Dumbledore's face, so hard a moment ago, became bewildered. "Quirinus? What -"

Draco looked confused, and he stuttered out another "Headmaster?"

"Well," said Albus Dumbledore. "I do feel stupid."

"Sir, I don't understand. You are supposed to give me advice. I thought this room would ..." but Dumbledore spoke right through him.

"There I am, searching so hard for Voldemort's shade, never noticing that the Defense Professor of Hogwarts is a sickly, half-dead victim possessed by a spirit far more powerful than himself. I would call it senility, if so many others had not missed it as well."

 _This isn't Dumbledore. This is a ... movie of Dumbledore, perhaps._ _A shade_. Draco waved and shouted, but the Albus Dumbledore in the mirror - the mirror which did not reflect the room he was in, but of another room, more of a cave really – didn't answer. The only one in that other room was Dumbledore. After a moment, Draco registered the actual words he'd heard. _Quirrell was Voldemort_. Draco sat down, practically collapsed. _I made the same mistake Father did. I didn't recognize my enemy. For a year._

Draco caught himself. _If this is true._

"Oh, yes indeed," Albus Dumbledore said in level tones. "Your acting was perfect; I confess myself utterly deceived. Quirinus Quirrell seemed - what is the term I am looking for? Ah yes, that is the word. He seemed sane."

 _This is not necessarily true. Why do you believe this is true? This is an illusion._ Draco wanted to believe this is a lie, but it felt correct. Why would this room, or whoever created it, lie to Draco. What would be the point? That seemed far fetched, and if Hogwarts itself was lying to him, Draco didn't know what to think.

Draco considered what he heard. Professor Quirrell was Voldemort? Did that make sense? He'd been powerful enough, but ... it didn't fit. _Did it?_ Draco sat and listened, listened to only one side of the conversation as best he could. _Would anyone fake half a converstion to fool me_? _Actually, this seems exactly like the sort of thing Father would expect Dumbledore to do._

"The Boy-Who-Lived came out of it well enough. Tried to turn him into _you_ , did you? Instead you turned yourself into a corpse, and Harry Potter became the wizard you should have been."

Draco snapped back his full attention at the mention of Harry Potter. _If Professor Quirrell was Voldemort, what did that imply?_ Draco's stomach knotted, that sentence could be interpreted many ways, but they didn't seem good...

"All of Tom Riddle's icy brilliance, tamed to the service of James and Lily's warmth and love. I wonder how you felt when you saw what Tom Riddle could have become, if he had grown up in a loving family?"

Draco relaxed, and realized he'd been holding his breath. This was the proof he'd searched for. Dumbledore knew about Harry. Dumbledore didn't know about Voldemort, exactly, but _Dumbledore trusted Harry_. Clearly there was some connection between Voldemort and Potter, but Harry had become – better. Draco started laughing.

"I suppose the humor of the situation would be lost on you."

 _He's not reacting to me. Is he? He wasn't before._

"How I laughed when I realized it! When I saw you had made a Good Voldemort to oppose the evil one - ah, how I laughed! I never had the steel for my role, but Harry Potter shall be more than equal to it, when he comes into his power. Though I suppose Harry shall have to find some other Dark Lord to vanquish for it, since you will not be there."

Draco watched the one sided exchange of the Dumbledore and Voldemort's argument, the Headmaster said he wouldn't give in despite Voldemort's hostages. This was odd, why did Dumbledore not attack Voldemort? Why was he not defending? Why were they talking, instead of fighting?

 _I went down this entire path because Harry Potter spoke with Voldemort, and here Dumbledore did it too._ Draco paused, them remembered to add. _If this is true._ Does anyone just attack their enemy?

Dumbledore knew Voldemort's true name, he must have taught him. Professor Quirrell - Voldemort - must have known about Harry on the very first day of classes, known about their relationship. Now that Draco thought about it, Quirrell practically devoted his first two classes to Harry. Oh, he'd involved Draco and Hermione. But mainly Harry. Quirrell mentored Harry through the year, but had it been much more extensively than he'd taught Draco?

Harry probably didn't even know that Quirrell was Voldemort, everyone thought Voldemort died. Harry would consider it … irrational to worry about, until he had proof.

Draco now had a perfectly good explanation why Harry Potter had been on good terms with Voldemort until he killed him. At some point Harry deduced Voldemort's true nature and then they had fought, and Harry had won.

Draco's train of thought was interrupted by the name "Harry Potter," the Headmaster breathed. " _What are you doing here?_ "

Draco glanced around, instinctively, to see if he'd been discovered. He turned back to see Dumbledore's frantic "No! No! No!" and watched as Dumbledore tossed away his wand and a rod that Draco recognized as the Line of Merlin Unbroken.

Then there was a flicker, and Dumbledore was gone.

The Headmaster reappeared with the words "Hello, Tom."

Draco watched again, paying attention, surprise replaced with concentration. He watched a third time.

 _Harry could be the hostage. Dumbledore had then conceded defeat rather than have Voldemort kill Harry._ That made sense.

 _Or Harry had betrayed Dumbledore while working with Voldemort, who he betrayed later._ That seemed … less likely. But not impossible.

 _Or Harry had stumbled onto the final duel between the two greatest living wizards and somehow accidentally messed up Dumbledore's plan._ That hypothesis … could not be rejected out of hand. General Chaos had that effect on people.

Draco, after several repetitions, tenatively decided against the third option. Dumbledore's eyes moved around, he was watching Voldemort. It just seemed unlikely that Harry would be there by accident. Too many coincidences. Dumbledore's surprise seemed genuine. How had Harry snuck up on him? And Voldemort?

Draco remembered Hermione, appearing out of nowhere in the battle just outside this door.

Draco wanted to believe that Harry was a hostage. It wasn't far fetched. Draco may have discovered Quirrell's secret, but Dumbledore had said " _All of Tom Riddle's Icy Brilliance..._ " Tom Riddle must be Voldemort's real name. On some level Voldemort was Evil Harry. Or, perhaps, Harry was Good Voldemort.

That was a disturbing thought. Draco shuddered at the implications.

Voldemort only _pretended_ to fly into a rage? Father had described scenes of Voldemort with Death Eaters (as second hand descriptions). Voldemort didn't appear sane. But if Voldemort was Quirrell, that meant he already knew the lessons Quirrell taught. How to Lose. Martial Arts. A Voldemort that laughed at Harry's ridiculous ways to murder people as useless, because he had hundreds of non ridiculous ways.

A Voldemort so confident that he worked under the nose of his greatest enemy for a year - while dying and injured and far from the full height of his powers - just to teach and connect with his younger self. Or for some other reason, but viewing that as a benefit.

Quirrell was so cunning that he'd managed to fulfill multiple wishes with a single plot, just because he wanted to.

Draco thought, and the examples kept piling up. _That was Voldemort?_ Not the bedtime monster Father described, but someone so cunning that Hogwarts itself - and everyone in it - was just an amusing plaything?

Draco remembered imagining Harry Potter as evil, trying to find a sign or clue, all the times he'd looked for a mistake. Now, at least, he had the cold comfort that he wasn't just deficient in imagination.

 _If this was true._

 _Why do I believe what I believe?_

Then Draco thought about it again. Voldemort had defeated Dumbledore ... somehow. Dumbledore was gone, and this didn't seem like a ruse. If Quirrell was Voldemort and had Harry as a hostage, then he'd gotten the upper hand. That didn't make sense at all, that felt confusing. Draco got up and started pacing, when he came to the backside of the portal he saw that it had some thickness, but not nearly enough to hold the room Dumbledore was in. Draco read the words, and felt like he understood them, but when he looked away he couldn't remember what they meant. He want back around to the front, and looked through the portal. Draco put his hand out to see if he could touch it, but it felt like a sheet of glass, smooth and cool.

Draco considered the timeline. Dumbledore is waiting for Voldemort in this device, a doorway into another place. Presumably he knew Voldemort needed it. Dumbledore surprised Voldemort, but learned that Voldemort was possessing Quirrel. Voldemort traps Dumbeldore without any spell, so presumably he'd expected an ambush, and maybe brought Harry Potter along.

And _then_ Harry Potter defeats Voldemort? No. On their best day the entire first year army would stand no chance against Professor Quirrell, unless they ambushed them. A clever Voldemort with enough time to plan to defeat Dumbledore. Draco could convince himself that Harry and Quirrell could defeat Voldemort, but Harry by himself AND facing Voldemort as smart as Quirrell? Was that really more likely than Voldemort had simply quit possessing Quirrell

That Voldemort had pretended to lose. He could be possessing anyone. He could be possessing Harry. Or they could be working together, for some purpose.

Despair washed over Draco. "This isn't an answer," he mumbled to the room, empty except for the shade of his former Headmaster. Then he shouted "I still don't know!" at the image of Albus Dumbledore, who was _saying_ 'Hello, Tom' again _._ "It's not enough! How does this qualify as an answer? You trusted Harry knowing he was Voldemort, but _Voldemort fooled you too_!" Draco took out his wand and lashed out, cutting the portal, smashing spell after spell at it, first normal spells he'd use in classes and on the battlefield, then the spells Father had told him to not reveal. Draco levitated a chair from across the room and flung it at the portal. The chair itself shattered from the impact, leaving no cracks on the glass.

After a few minutes, exhausted, he slumped back to the ground, mumbling. "It's not fair. That's not an answer."

Draco woke up with a start, sitting at his desk.


	23. Correspondence, Part 2

_Do not mistake hesitation for caution. - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

Draco sat carefully at his desk, it was dark, so he took out his wand and cast Lumos once, carefully placing his wand so the light didn't wake Gregory. Draco had spent the last few days thinking about his encounter with the vision of Dumbledore. Had it been real or a false memory? Right now he wasn't sure, but he could at least verify or falsify what he'd learned. After a minute in the dim light Gregory still snored gently, so Draco opened his diary and started writing.

Falsifiable predictions made by Albus Dumbledore (?) on Harry Potter Day:

 _Voldemort's original name is Tom Riddle_

 _Voldemort possessed Professor Quirrell_

 _Voldemort killed Nicolas Flamel_

Draco paused, then rubbed his thumb along the last line, which disappeared from the journal. Draco already knew Flamel had been murdered that night, so it didn't count as an advance prediction. In any case he had no way to investigate a complex, months old, distant murder.

Draco considered what else he'd heard. He started to write Harry Potter is, in some way, Voldemort. But that didn't count as an advanced prediction either. Everyone already wondered that. That thought had consumed Draco for months, and yet he didn't feel any distrust towards Harry. Concern, perhaps, but not distrust.

Was there some way to make a more specific prediction about Harry? Something bolder? Dumbledore had said "All of Tom Riddle's icy brilliance," the phrase stuck in Draco's mind. Draco chewed in his quill and thumbed through the transcript he'd written after waking up. Now he wasn't looking at what Dumbledore said, so much as what he implied.

Harry Potter arrived on the scene in a way that surprised Dumbeldore, but not Voldemort.

Draco remembered the final moment, where Dumbledore realized he'd lost and thrown away his long wand and the much shorter dark stone rod, instantly recognizable to all members of the Wizengamot and, in some cases, their heirs.

Albus Dumbledore was trapped in an elegant device (a mirror?) like the one I saw.

The Headmistress had said he was lost in time, and seeing him repeat like that mattered, but she hadn't mentioned a mirror. So that counted as something new.

Dumbledore threw away his wand and the Line of Merlin Unbroken

Which raised the question: Where did Amelia Bones find it?

Draco sighed, even if he managed to verify this information the memory still could be false or planted, but at least it would have been planted by someone who knew something approaching the truth. In plays investigations only took a few hours. Real life seemed so … messy, especially after last year's attempted murder and the last few months, Draco realized. Draco picked up his quill.

 _To do – Figure out how to prevent false memories, or if my memory is tampered with._

Draco paused, and then the letters wrote on their own.

 _I_ _do not believe that memory is false._

Draco stared at the page, then quickly scribbled _Why not?_

 _Because I keep your secrets_

Draco wrote further questions, but the words did not change, and his questions stay unanswered.

* * *

 _To: Gringotts Bank_

 _From: Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius son of Abraxis Lords of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, son also of Narcissa daughter of Druella Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, scion and heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy:_

 _As is well documented, both in journalistic accounts such as in the Daily Prophet and by the official investigation conducted by D.M.L.E. (now Chief Warlock) Amelia Bones: my Father Lucius Malfoy, formerly Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, died at the hands of Lord Voldemort sometime during the night of June 13th or morning of June 14th, 1992._

 _As is also well documented, Lucius Malfoy's late wife, Narcissa Malfoy, Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, did not appear before the Wizengamot until June 19th. Before that time she was legally dead._

 _This fact is also not in dispute._

 _Narcissa Malfoy's death was not in doubt to Lucius Malfoy at the time of his death, as the revisions to his Will from over a decade ago make clear. Lucius Malfoy made provisions for myself in case of his death and no mention was made of his late wife. While I am not fully of age, the facts and the law are clear: Narcissa Malfoy is not my legal guardian, nor I her ward, and while I do have reduced rights (due to my age) over my vault, she has none._

 _Therefore, in accordance with the Last Will and Testament of Lucius Malfoy ( &c &c), of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy, I, Draco Malfoy (&c &c) do instruct Gringotts bank that:_

 _First, the Lady Narcissa Malfoy ( &c &c) has no claim to any of the wealth currently stored in the Malfoy vault at Gringotts. I wish to receive a personal letter, delivered to Hogwarts, acknowledging that fact._

 _Second, please continue to allow Lady Malfoy to make any reasonable withdrawls and show all the courtesy to which a customer of Gringotts is due. Reasonable withdrawals shall total no more than 400 Galleons monthly. Please send a copy of all transactions to me at Hogwarts._

 _Third, Lady Malfoy shall be allowed into the vault, but may not remove any magical artifacts from said vault without my prior approval. Non-magical trinkets and all ladies jewelry is pre-approved, and I will send a complete list after my inventory, which I will conduct over the Christmas break. Please let me know the days & hours that Griphook would be available to assist._

 _You will receive an Owl from my solicitor, confirming this instruction and requesting copies of all relevant correspondence._

 _Draco Malfoy, Heir and Acting Lord of House Malfoy._

Draco read over the letter, checking his wording from the template his solicitor had provided, then sealed it, and placed it on his desk.

He didn't wake up Tanuxa, she'd get to it later, after her morning hunt.

* * *

Draco, Gregory and Harry were walking back from another session of the Bayesian Conspiracy when Harry, feet automatically moving him back to his room, woke up from his reverie and ask "Draco, How long is a good plot? I mean, a good plot should be short, but what's the longest that a good plot has lasted?"

Gregory just shook his head. He'd gotten used to the odd questions that Harry sometimes asked, but that didn't make them any less odd.

"You aren't just counting feuds are you? Those can last centuries, but aren't really plots. As you point out, shorter is usually better. Some plans just take time to come to fruition, you can't grow a plant any faster than it grows, so if you need a branch off a hundred year old oak planted on a full moon then you have to wait a hundred years. Some plots just take time."

"I'm not counting that," said Harry, "I'm talking about a long term strategy that requires active planning and modification."

Draco thought about it.

"Well, dynastic maneuvering lasts generations, and never really ends. Just the Noble Houses fighting for position."

"No, I'm not counting that either. That's a zero-sum social game. I'm talking about something with a beginning, middle and end."

"OK, I can think of several that stretch out a decade. Maybe two. Typically any play based on history will cover a plot that long, but those are probably embellished. Mellar's plans before he even arrived at Castle Black are rumored to have taken well over a century, but that story predates Merlin and supposedly all of the participants were a thousand years old. And he got thwarted anyway. It's tough to plot out a century, how could he know someone who was barely fifty would intervene? So, discounting that," Draco chewed on his lip for a second,"I'd put the upper limit at maybe twenty five years. For serious plots, not career climbing or dynasty. Even twenty years is rare. Pretty much any good plot of that length becomes a play, although I suppose it's just barely possible that someone pulled off something better without ever bragging, even on their deathbed."

"That makes sense," Harry said, "Professor Asimov has one of his stories about a plotter who can predict the future and plans out thousands of years, but it's just a story, and even then he has people actively modifying it after he dies. I think he has a line 'To succeed, planning is not sufficient, one must improvise as well.' I had given a range of ten to thirty years, so it's good that your number matches with mine."

"Why do you ask," Gregory piped in.

"Oh, I was just wondering what the record was," said Harry.


	24. Asymmetric Warfare, Part 3

_"People do not despise others for their vices, they despise those who lack virtues." - Lucius Malfoy  
_

* * *

Professor Slughorn, slathering jam liberally across a piece of toast, turned to Adjunct Professor Lockhart and said "You know if you do this, things could get ugly." Slughorn then slid the toast into his mouth, grabbing a croissant

Professor Asimov, sitting on Slughorn's left, fiddled with his strawberries and cream. He'd tried to eat healthier since rejuvenation and didn't want to get fat, not with long decades stretched out in front of him and a vividly compelling counter-example sitting beside him. He stared at Draco Malfoy, nibbling on his breakfast and talking with several Slytherins at once.

"You don't think they'd attack him in public like that, do you?" Isaac said, putting down his spoon and greedily eying the pastries.

"If things turn ugly it will be due to _your_ meddling, Horace. I don't imagine they would," said Professor Lockhart, cutting into a sausage, "I mean, that doesn't seem clever. Practically every teacher will be watching."

"Oh," chuckled Professor Slughorn, "that's the thing about cleverness. A plan some quivering Hufflepuff considers clever would seem terrible to a smart Ravenclaw. Then a bold Slytherin pulls it off. So, was it a clever plan? Should our Hufflepuff try it? _Of course not_ , he'd muck it up." Horace had used his fork to stab a piece of sausage and waved it like a baton, swinging it towards the various Houses tables at the appropriate point in his discussion. Now he took a bite, then continued.

"But the Ravenclaw wasn't correct, either. A plan can be clever and not clever at the same time. Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors never deal with ambiguity like that. Loyalty and Bravery aren't mercurial and fluid. Cleverness and ambition wax and wane like the moon. Shirkers think that too many witnesses makes a flawed plan, ambitious students see an opportunity. I mean, you can't watch _everyone_ while judging a battle, can you Gilderoy?"

Professor Asimov leaned across, "You … you're prodding them into it, aren't you? Plotting against your own students!" Slughorn chuckled and reached for a danish. He liked the little cheese ones best.

"Isaac," said Professor Lockhart cautiously, "Well, you are right of course, but that's how these things are done. I may have issues with his methods, but Horace's ... meddling produced a slew of immensely talented individuals over the decades. But exactly who are you promoting, Horace? Malfoy doesn't join your little chats, but Zabini does."

"I have a wide variety of interests," sniffed Professor Slughorn, "and I'll ruefully admit that my methods are blunter than usual, but you have no idea the mess I inherited from Severus. I'm hoping to limit the damage to several expulsions, personally."

"Expulsions?" said Professor Asimov, "You are angling to get your students expelled? That seems drastic."

"We can't all be good students, Isaac," said Professor Lockhart, "I might have turned out better if I'd gotten a shock like that at fifteen. Not that I did anything worthy of expulsion, mind you."

"Oh, if you had been in my house, you would have," chuckled Horace Slughorn, stretching his arms out and patting both his colleagues jovially on the back, "but I think you've turned out well enough in your own time. Looking back over my history, I played it a bit too close to my chest at times. Perhaps last year could have been avoided, if I'd trusted my judgment a few decades earlier."

"You … you taught Voldemort," said Professor Asimov too loudly, then looked out over the House tables. Professor Lockhart saw his glance. But the assembled students kept up their chatter without pause. Professor Asimov remembered what he'd been told, magic kept students from overhearing anything said at the teacher's table unless a Professor specifically addressed the students.

"Don't worry, we all do that a few times. That's why we have the spell," said Gilderoy.

"I don't know that," said Professor Slughorn, dropping the remaining half of his Danish and shoving his plate away. "No. I do know that, but I didn't admit it to myself. I'm not certain, but it all adds up. My greatest mistake. That boy had such potential I blinded myself to his danger, told myself that no mere teenager could outwit me. If he'd been expelled he might have turned out just as poorly, but at least my hands would be clean. He might have very well lashed out right away, limiting the damage. No ... I think things would have turned out better if there had been a few more expulsions in the past. Maybe, one every few years, perhaps ... one or two? Yes. Two expulsions."

Isaac had just picked up his spoon and taken another tentative bite of his strawberries and cream when Horace added "Or one murder, I suppose."

* * *

The Howler exploded as dawn broke besides the lake, the last wisps of moonlight glittering off the surface, turning the morning fog silver. The howler ripped open along the edges, noise pulsing outwards, screaming " _Good morning Slytherins_ " loudly, with an elongated drawl. Nobody in the dungeons heard, of course.

Startled by the howler, Draco whipped awake, wand out, sitting up so quickly that he tumbled out of a small green cot onto the dew-laden grass. Gregory's face appeared as he leaned over his edge of his cot. They glanced at each other and heard the rest of the shouts and exclamations as the Slytherins woke up.

"How did we get out here," "What's going on," "Fifteen more minutes, just fifteen..." "Why are we by the lake," the murmuring grew into conversations into shouted accustaions until finally a second howler appeared overhead. This one opened slowly and deliberately. It didn't scream, but the voice carried well over the lake shore, echoing slightly.

"Good morning, my young apprentices," Professor Lockhart's voice boomed across the lake, "As I mentioned in our last class, today the N.E.W.T. armies, along with some selected fourth years, are conducting battlefield exercises. I promised you an exciting spectacle. What I _may_ have neglected to mention is that in any real war there are civilian populations. You can define civilian in any number of interesting ways I suppose, but I define it as people who don't particularly care about the outcome of the battle. It most certainly doesn't mean non-combatant."

Draco looked across the group, boys from the first four years. A mere hundred yards along the shore he spotted another cluster of cots and a blinking and stretching coterie of Slytherin witches. Two mermen poked their heads above the lake, stared at the Howler and assembled students, then disappeared underneath the still water. Scanning the crowd, Draco accounted for every healthy Slytherin of third year or below, except Harry Potter.

That didn't surprise Draco.

"War can come at any time, often you only have the vaguest of hints and little time to prepare. In short, wars inevitably lead to refugees, simulated today by my younger students. All younger students have been transported onto the battlefield for the duration of the battle, although each house has has been put into a different area. Because this simulates a sudden evacuation, we only transported the items you slept with – although clothes were provided in a few cases. Large capacity items, such as mokeskin bags, are still in your rooms. If you proclaim that you would have taken it with you, well, you may be right. But often refugees find that someone stronger may steal what you have saved."

At this, a large groan and several students started crying, Draco had started sleeping with his wand after the night he'd been abducted. A quick pat of his robes revealed that his mokeskin pouch didn't get transported with him. However, he felt the reassuring bump of his pocket flask next to his heart. Draco raised an eyebrow at Gregory. Gregory flashed his wand, gripped tightly in his hand. That made two.

"Refugees, as a rule, have a single goal. _Survival_. But I'll concede that watching this battle is more fun that being a refugee, which means my more clever students would be tempted to get themselves killed, have breakfast, and enjoy the show. To help align our incentives anyone killed before sundown tonight will have detention for the rest of the weekend. Those restrooms _do_ clean themselves, but they can always use some extra shine! But this wouldn't be interesting for our N.E.W.T. students if every refugee behaved the same, there are always a few idealists interspersed with the displaced masses, people who don't fear death as much as others. Which leads us to my next point..."

The sky, lighter as the sun poked over the water, darkened slightly as a massive fluttering of wings approached carrying the morning mail. Unlike most mornings every student got a letter. Draco didn't recognize the owl, a large woodland brown owl with a cruel beak that landed on the side of his fallen cot. It hooted twice, dropped a letter, and then flew off without even looking. Draco reached over and opened it.

 _Draco,_

 _Be careful. Some of your Housemates mean you actual harm. Simulated dying is to be much preferred to actual death, and you will receive no detention if you die to avoid real danger. If you need to discuss your situation, I am always willing to help._

 _G.L._

Draco read the letter quickly. He started to hand it to Gregory, but it burst into flame. _Of course_ , thought Draco, _nobody should be able to verify your motivation by some in-game scroll, where's the fun in that?_ Draco walked over to Blaise Zabini, who saw Draco's wand and shook his head mournfully. Since the upper years were combatants, Draco probably didn't have many enemies in camp. Draco cast _Sonorus_ and addressed the crowd.

"The armies will be here shortly. If you have anything useful, like a wand, let one of the Generals know. Our first order of business is to make sure that any army that comes by has a strong interest in leaving us alone. Do you like scrubbing toilets? No? _Then we want to be left alone_. First years, gather up any wand shaped twigs. Anyone with a wand, let someone borrow it so they can transfigure the twigs to make them look more like wands."

They wouldn't last long, but most second years could turn twigs into wands and maintain the transfiguration for a while, at least while they held the twigs.

There were brooms overhead. Draco saw two, three, four formations. The fliers coming from the North East veered towards the western group, and spellfire flew between them, red, green and a cone of purple that produced a thunderclap and sent the water rippling. Powerful spells.

"Anyone with a good plan, talk to one of the Generals. Everyone, lets move towards the witches, safety in numbers. Take your cots! They may be useful." Draco canceled his spell, then summoned his _patronus_ , it floated in the air besides him, tongue flicking tentatively.

"Find Neville Longbottom, we'll give him any information we come up with, as long as they do the same. Right now I don't have anything to offer. I'm just a refugee, no special goals." Draco glanced at the broom overhead. All of the armies must know the positions of the underclassman by now, no point in hiding it. "Slytherins are on the lake shore, if he wants to form up."

Draco nodded and his Patronus slithered off. He started jogging towards the witches, pausing only to pick up a twig and start a Transfiguration. As he jogged, he glanced around at roughly half of House Slytherin. Combined on the lake shore, not split into armies.

Modest stakes, for the rest of them. Nobody would be making a serious attempt on Zachary Smith or Blaise Zabini, so they didn't have to worry about that. But nobody relished detention. Draco couldn't convert enemies today, but he could make dozens of friends and solidify some lukewarm allies. All he needed to do was figure out a way to save them all. Draco stumbled again as another spell crackled overhead, sounding like the whimpering of whipped dogs. Draco smiled, reaching into his robe for his flask.

* * *

General Wood sat on his broom, hovering a dozen feet above the ground, a safe distance above the assembled Slytherins. They'd built up a barricade of cots. It wouldn't stop any real spells, but it did make it difficult to see who was who, and the gaps fairly bristled with wands pointing at him.

A suspiciously large number of wands, Oliver thought. He pulled his broom up a bit higher, next to Fred Weasley. "What do you think, Fred?"

"Is Potter down there, hiding?" asked Fred.

Oliver shook his head, "I saw him in the bleachers."

"Then it's a bluff," Fred said firmly. "Some real wands, but probably not many." He peered down inside the barricades, and saw the Slytherin generals conferring. "Malfoy's tricky, and not just Slytherin tricky. Potter's rubbed off on him. Me an' George swap ideas with him, and he's good. And you've seen him fight."

Oliver kicked away, and then shouted down to the Slytherins. "PARLAY?" There was a huddle, and several patronus rushed away in all directions. Mist, snake, owl and maybe a sparrow. A shout came back ... "AGREED." Draco Malfoy walked away from the rest of his generals, hands up, no wand showing. After his brief show, he jogged towards a small hill and past it.

Oliver Wood landed the broom just as Draco took a small swig from his flask. "Can you believe they didn't provide us food or water," Draco asked, smacking his lips as he put the flask away. "I choose this hill because for all I know someone in my camp has a grudge against your army, and I don't want to be accused of plotting against you."

"What do you mean someone has a grudge?" Draco just shrugged "Lockhart sent every one of us a letter explaining how he'd judge if we won or lost. Most of us just need to survive, but I have no idea what every letter said. That's true of every camp, by the way."

"You've been in contact with them, then?"

Draco nodded, slowly turning, surveying the scene. The brooms had mostly disappeared, early scouts just getting the lay of the land. Even second years knew the value of good battlefield intelligence. Plans were being made now, but there were still skirmishes when groups encountered each other unexpectedly. Oliver followed Draco's gaze and saw spells coming from the non-forbidden forest, a few trees had caught fire but a small rainstorm appeared overhead to douse the flames.

"We sent word about your offer of parlay, so if you attack us now, the other camps will know they can't trust you. So, what do you want?"

"We need a logistical support and more soldiers," said Oliver.

"And you are offering ..." Draco drew out the question.

"We could just take it. Armies are press-ganging the others as we speak."

"General Wood, I like you, I trust you. But I don't trust your orders. For all I know you drew the Voldemort chit this game and want to murder everyone. And if we do join with you, you'll face the same problem. Someone may have a goal of murdering a General, or aiding your enemy, and I don't even know how many teams there are. So if I made a deal with you, I could only say that most of the people involved won't try to betray you, and some would actively help you. If you want, I'll ask for volunteers and we won't stop anyone who wants to join you."

"That doesn't seem like much," Wood said.

"If you want me to recommend we join up with you, we need real concessions as a show of good faith. We keep our wands, you can execute traitors, but no mass retaliations. Volunteers only for combat missions and our logistical support people get a reasonable sized garrison. And two brooms for us to use"

"Two brooms? Get serious. I could just kidnap you and destroy your group. From what I've seen, that may be better. At least we wouldn't be tied down defending everyone and watching our backs. And it would eliminate a threat."

Draco slowly pushed back his robe to reveal his dueling holster strapped to his left arm and the wand it held. Oliver had his wand out and pointed instantly. Draco pulled out the wand by the tip. He kept the wand pointed at himself, then slowly brought his other hand up and snapped the wand in half.

He dropped two halves of a wand, but only snapped twigs hit the ground.

"Now you _can_ murder me," Draco said, "But kidnapping me is useless, unless you loan me your wand. From my point of view, I win if you murder me. I loaned my wand to someone else, and I'll have an ally in real life if he gets to use it for the rest of the day. You can leave us alone, and rest easy in the knowledge that no other general can use us, or you can try to kill us all."

The fire in the non-forbidden forest grew dimmer, and the rising cloud of steam reflected the morning sunilight. Draco shrugged and started back towards the rest of the Slytherins.

"It probably won't even cost you two of your soldiers. But you'll have lost two," Draco added, "and all those armies will have gained how many?"

Oliver Wood paced, then went back to his broom and kicked off the ground, hovering. This wasn't good at all, but he had to make the most of a bad position. Just his luck, being close to the Slyltherins. He turned back to Malfoy and asked "What do you need the brooms for?"

"Rescuing survivors from other camps and some defensive patrols," said Draco. Oliver thought about it, then took a quick flight to examine the Slytherin contingent and confer with his officers.

"One broom now to Goyle and he flies with us. You get the first broom we capture and any more that Goyle brings down or your people personally scavenge, but he's part of our team."

"Gregory would enjoy that," Draco agreed. "What else?"

"I counted at least three or four patronuses, we add those people to our signal core or combat operations, their choice."

Draco thought about it, "We keep our wands. No trying to figure out which ones are real, and no mass reprisals if there are traitors?"

Wood nodded, "I didn't draw the Voldemort chit. You try to sniff traitors out before they attack. And you take your wand back from whoever you loaned it to and assist as I see fit."

"Put Weasley in charge of the garrison defenses and I can sell that."

"Done," said Oliver as they shook hands, making sure that the brooms overhead as well as the Slytherin camp saw.

Ten minutes later, joint operations began.

* * *

Daphne Greengrass suddenly pivoted, shifting her aim. Draco didn't have time to shout, he'd already started casting, swinging his wand towards Daphne and he finished _Stupefy_ right as she did. Daphne fell to the ground suffused by the red glow that indicated a casualty of war. A mere twenty feet off to her right, Oliver Wood lay sprawled on the ground besides his broom, glowing red, victim of Daphne's treachery.

"Dammit," said Penelope Clearwater, "I thought you vouched for her." Penelope's wand pointed at Draco while the rest of the squad, what was left of it, watched. Penelope's free hand brushed away the sweat of the mid-afternoon sun. It wasn't that hot, but they'd been moving and fighting for hours.

"I did vouch for her," Draco said, "and you saw her, she did fine. What can you do when someone hides in your midst for hours? Maybe she had an objective of killing General Wood." Oliver had only joined this squadron in the last half hour, his prior group dead. "This doesn't change the deal. I held up my side as best as I could. And in any case, killing me doesn't help you. " The squadron exchanged glances, shoulders hung low.

Draco didn't know the exact situation, they'd cut him out of a planning, fearing treachery, but he'd sent some messages and seen their army whittled down. Maybe other armies took heavier casualties, but he didn't think so. Draco could read it in the downcast eyes and slouched shoulders. They'd lost – they'd had hope as long as they had General Wood – but it died with him.

They were in an endgame, on the losing side. But chess teaches that sometimes you could sneak out a draw despite being down a few pieces.

Draco looked up at the sun through the trees – through edge of the forest - trying to gauge the time. His stomach growled, they'd barely eaten anything. "I figure we just need to hold out for an hour," he said trying to rally them without sounding bossy, "let's find a place to hole up, ride this out." Penelope had resuscitated Olivier and Daphne, who trudged off the field without a word. (Speaking after you died was _unrealistic_. Roger Davies tried to impart some crucial information in spite of Professor Quirrell's ban last Spring. Professor Quirrell made sure to take a few minutes from his next lecture showing a recording of Davies on the battlefield, coughing up chicken feathers and making sad gurgling noises in front of his horrified squad mates. Nobody tried to break that rule anymore).

Draco saw the approaching brooms, five of them, with a sinking heart … all older Slytherins. He spotted MacNair's face from beneath the robes. Draco couldn't tell about the others but they'd stripped off any army insignia. No time for a logical decision, Draco acted on instinct. He reached into his robe, took out his flask, and drank the last of the Felix Filicis in several gulps, ignoring the looks.

Draco had maybe two hours of luck.

As the first drop hit his stomach, Draco felt clarity. Some options fell away instantly, Draco knew he couldn't talk his way out of this. But he could see that Penelope and the others would let him go, if he just gave them some hope. Draco ran to the broom, and the others turned their wands to him, but he just shouted "It's an ambush, but they're after me, I'll lead them off." Penelope lowered her wand and the others followed their lead. "Head into the forest, keep low, they can't follow you on brooms anyway." Draco kicked off. He started North, away from the oncoming brooms, but instinct told him to head West, towards the lake and the makeshift refugee camp. At least, that's what it had been this morning. He accelerated as fast as he could, and he heard the shouts.

"After him," came Hestia's screeching voice. Draco didn't bother casting any hexes, there were too many of them. He stayed low to the ground, and sometimes made a quick turn, just a few degrees. Spells kept narrowly missing him but the others were getting closer. He could see the refugee camp ahead, and he aimed to go past it as close as possible. He might have enemies in the camp, but he doubted they'd be able to hit him. But if anyone behind him had an enemy...

After he passed the camp, he veered back, heading directly into the sunset while over Hogwarts lake. None of the people chasing him had been shot down, but they'd been shot at, which gave Draco time. Draco saw brooms ahead, a grueling dogfight. Four brooms, moving faster than he was - even at full speed - but these brooms flew in jagged arcs, suddenly veering and darting. Seekers and Beaters and Chasers, but Draco's instinct said to head straight for them and he did. He elevated, gaining altitude to join the dogfight. One of the brooms glowed red and fell from the sky, splashing into the water, followed a second later by a second splash. Draco heard Gregory's triumphant whoop.

"Incoming," Draco shouted, passing between the other two brooms. Angelina Johnson almost fired at Draco, then turned to her team-mate and shouted "Ignore him." In calmer times Draco may have protested but he didn't feel offended when the two brooms shot off towards his attackers. Draco banked hard left, heading back towards land.

"So, what's up," Gregory asked casually. Draco looked over his shoulder and Gregory was there, slightly above and just behind him, robe pulled up over his face to keep the brunt of the wind out of his eyes. Draco pulled his own robe up to cover his face, then glanced back over his shoulder, the brooms behind them made complicated patterns, a furball of maneuvers and spells.

"It's MacNair and Hestia and the others, after me," Draco said.

"If we go around the forbidden forest we can make it to the spectator stands," Gregory answered.

"It's faster if we go over," Draco said. "Well over. We need at least twenty feet clearance." Draco glanced behind them, the brooms were catching up. Why did Oliver Wood own such a terrible broom if he played Quidditch? If he'd been alive, Father would surely have bought him a Nimbus 2001 by now. _If he'd been alive_. Draco ignored the thought.

"If we go that high we'll be easy to track," Gregory said. "They just took down the other two, but there are only three following us now."

"We've got time, I can feel it." Draco felt drawn towards the forest, he just knew that he should head into the forest. Given his luck so far, he didn't question his instinct to go there. Draco gained altitude again, broom not even slowing.

Gregory said, "Warn me if you break," then moved in closer, put his hand out, fingers brushing Draco's broom. Gregory turned his head, looking over his shoulder and took a long look, letting Draco's broom guide him.

"They're back and climbing. Maybe in spell range in a minute. Someone's pursuing them, but too far back to matter."

Draco nudged his broom up slightly. Gregory rose with him, while Draco explained "There's some webbing in the trees and a mist over the forest, twenty feet isn't enough."

"Webs?" Gregory said, worried, but didn't look forward. They passed over the boundary of the forbidden forest and Gregory spotted the webs behind them. "Another broom just kicked up, eight o'clock. Coming fast."

"Break right on three, take any shots, into the mist. I'll break left. Meet you near the stands but stay in bounds," said Draco. Gregory started to protest but Draco just said "Trust me! One, two, three!"

Gregory whipped his head forward on two and ducked under Draco, turned hard, but Draco's foot grazed the edge of his hood and knocked it back as Gregory climbed towards the mist. Gregory – realizing that they'd all follow Draco now that they could tell them apart - started to dive and ignore the orders, but there were webs everywhere and he climbed up and disappeared into the mist, having to take his time to circle back safely.

Draco dived low, knees brushing the treeline. He weaved between webs thick enough to hide him, narrowly dodging the sticky tendrils. The brooms behind him had to slow down to navigate, their speed advantage wasted. Draco felt a pull, lower felt safer and if he stayed visible Gregory would find him and risk himself. Draco dropped below the treeline, moving slowly. Branches scratched his face, light peeked through in small beams. He heard a muffled _whumf_ behind him, and branches shook.

The screaming sounded like Hestia.

Draco quickly dropped to the ground. He wasn't sure, but he felt like he had maybe a quarter of a mile to the edge of the forest. The forest was thick here, he doubted anyone could spot him unless they moved. Draco heard a scuttling, and his instinct told him to veer right, so he did, confidently walking a mere foot past the triffid.

Vines quickly entangled his arm and jerked him ten feet into the air. Draco felt the sharp searing pain as foot long thorns ripped into his shoulder, piercing straight through and grinding hard against his bones.

There was a flash and Draco heard someone shout his name and then heard nothing.

* * *

 **Author's Note -** Lucius' quote is (again) by La Rochefoucauld.

The next chapter will be published in two weeks.

A note on the Hot Hand discussion from earlier. Science marches on! See /2015/07/09/hey-guess-what-there-really-is-a-hot-hand/


	25. Security Conscious, Part 1

_"Security means imposing costs on your friends to inflict a much greater cost on your foes. To make something perfectly secure means rendering it useless." - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

Draco screamed as thorns ripped into his arm and shoulder. Hermione was running towards him, shouting, her Phoenix launching off her shoulder, beak opened in a wordless scream. The vines around him writhed, engulfing him. He dangled sideways a dozen feet above the ground and then there was a snapping and his arm was at the base of the tree, roots move and pulling his fingers slowly towards a grotesque maw...

Draco woke up groaning, remembering the pain, the pulling and snapping. He lifted his left arm and _felt it move_ but the sheet covering him didn't raise, just bulged beneath his shoulder. His left arm tingled - _Draco felt it tingle_ \- but didn't seem to work. Draco opened his eyes - the brightness shocked him for a second - but he focused and made out the row of beds opposite him and the small table beside him. Draco shuffled his feet and the sheet pulled down from his chest and he saw the bandages on his shoulder, the stump that ended several inches lower. His arm was gone. Draco sucked in air. He wanted to cry out but it didn't hurt.

He remembered Hermione's shout, and the fluttering of wings. Mostly, he remembered the pain.

Draco looked around with a start and realized he wasn't in Hogwarts, but in Peverell. He recognized the rows of beds and the Aurors posted at the emergency entrance, he heard the primary Thief's Downfall splash in the distance, and the secondary Downfall activate nearby. The sun shone directly down through the skylight (too small for a man to fit through and loaded with traps for anything smaller) not much time had passed, or several days perhaps.

A shadow appeared over Draco and his eyes tried to adjust as he blinked them a few times.

"Eh, this better not be one of your tests, lad. I've got my eye on you." Draco focused on the brilliant blue eye swiveling around, then quickly snapped his eyes shut.

Alastor Moody hadn't bent over to look at Draco, he kept his head up and wand out. He didn't bother looking down at Draco, just spoke a bit louder so he could be heard as he slowly circled in one spot.

"I don't think I'd give up my arm just to help you," Draco said. He heard Moody chuckle then move away. Draco cautiously opened his eyes and saw Moody across the room, inspecting other patients.

Orderlies moved around the patients, comforting them, getting them water, preparing to move them. Draco recognized some of them, the middle aged nurse with the small ash wand that liked Chocolate Frogs. The intern studying Healing who practiced his scowl but screamed like a girl when Draco offered Weird Sisters tickets. Draco had learned quickly enough that everyone who worked at Peverell _took_ bribes, but didn't _stay_ bribed. Not about anything important, anyway. Even for his tests. Every five minutes or so the orderlies moved a patient out. Some of them groaned, but the room felt pleasant as it always had.

Nobody here complained or despaired, like in a regular hospital.

"Well, now, giving up an arm wouldn't stop some people," said Moody, stomping around the room. "Do you think I complained about losing my eye? My foot? Anyway, that was the past. Now you aren't losing an arm, so much as _misplacing_ it for a few hours. Barely an inconvenience at all." Draco remembered the grinding in his shoulder socket, the tearing and pulling as his arm ripped off, but decided not to press the point. Draco watched an orderly giving water and noticed Moody's eye lingering on that particular orderly. The young man looked to be about thirty, and had hair nearly as blond as Draco's own, although with a wild unkempt look. He was simply going from person to person, giving them water and barely talking. Moody's wand covered the room in intervals, but seemed to pause on that orderly, as if desperate to cast. Draco felt a strong urge to talk to that orderly, there was something about him, and that's when Draco realized _He felt the liquid luck still racing through his system._

Shouldn't it have worn off by now? Maybe it didn't get used up if you were unconscious. Hey may have only been out for half an hour, for all Draco knew. People probably didn't get knocked out and lose an arm when they used it, before. Losing an arm seemed unlucky. But misplacing it for a few hours? That could work.

Draco coughed and asked "Could I get some water?" He waved at the orderly, dressed in simple grey robes. Coupled with his pale skin and blue eyes, people might think he was Draco's cousin. The man came over and handed Draco a cup, and water wordlessly appeared. Draco propped himself up so that he was sitting, then drank deeply.

Nearly dying is thirsty business.

"How do you stop wandless magic in here, anyway?" Draco asked Moody, who just gave a barking laugh and left, muttering to himself. The orderly's eyes followed Moody's departure closely, then he turned back to take the glass and his eyes widened with shock. He sat down next to Draco.

"I have seen you here before. You are a student, helping perfect security. What happened to your arm?" Draco caught the accent and started wondering if there was some branch of the family in Germany, because Draco knew he'd seen a portrait of this man somewhere. Possibly in a cousin's house? A formal sitting portrait, perhaps. The orderly had been older, had lines on his face and greying hair, but still the same piercing blue eyes. But age didn't mean much, if you worked in Peverell.

"Yes," Draco put down the cup and held out his hand. "Draco Malfoy. I stumbled onto a Triffid, I think."

"Ah, A Malfoy. I met an Abraxas Malfoy let's see, fifty six years ago I believe. Gellert Grindelwald." He shook Draco's remaining hand firmly.

Draco felt too stunned to say anything other than "Abraxas was my grandfather."

"Was? I am sorry."

"Thank you. Dragon Pox, two years ago. At the time, it seemed like a natural thing. We all said it was simply his time, so it didn't seem like a tragedy. Of course now," Draco started to widely gesture towards the room that he knew contained the Chalice, but he was trying to use his left hand. They were moving another patient, a wizard who looked to be pushing one-fifty and had exceedingly long hairs coming out of his ears. Draco pointed with his right hand and shrugged.

"Yes, now we live in the Age of Wonder. I find myself shocked to be witnessing it." Gellert spoke with the formality of a bygone age, and seemed patient with long pauses.

"I wonder about that as well. I don't suppose you can tell me - for my security research - why they trust you? I mean, clearly Mad-Eye Moody does not trust you." Draco reached for his glass of water, which Gellert refilled and handed to him.

"I cannot tell you about security. Of course I am under an Unbreakable Vow, as are most around here, although mine was ... more extensive than usual. But even if I were free from compulsion, I would not tell you. It is not that prison reformed me - although the toll of the years does weigh heavy - just that I now have a chance to actually help the greater good, and that is better than dying in prison. So I agree with those who offer my parole; they need me, or people like me. I give my word and after the vow they trust me. Except for Alastor Moody, he thinks I may have some way to defeat the Vow. That I may have devised such a scheme in Nurmengard." He paused to refill Draco's cup.

"But they just have you as an orderly! That doesn't make sense. You could do anything to help them."

"I do _this_ because I wish it. My job takes little time, and I do not wish to spend the remaining time alone in my room. I have not spoken with many people, and those who I offer water think me a kind young man, until the staff tells them. Only the truly young, such as yourself, do not react with horror. You have read about it in books, yes? But they lived it. They hate me for what I did. And the Aurors and staff, they are like this as well."

"So, in your spare time you comfort the wounded, and you'll be stuck here for the rest of your life? I suppose that's better than isolation in prison..."

"No, no. Once my magic weakens enough, I will be released. I have taken one vow, but have bound so many others."

"They won't turn you into a Muggle, will they?" Draco didn't hide his horror. Draco no longer hated Muggles, but the thought of his own magic draining terrified him. Seemed unnatural. He supposed it was better than life in prison, but it would be like losing an arm. _Permanently losing an arm_.

"No, I suppose I will be as powerful as a seventh year. Perhaps weaker, but I will have the knowledge to compensate. They are bringing in another batch of recruits for security and once I bind them I suspect I will be free to go. Time served, as you say."

"What will you do? You should teach!" As soon as Draco said it he realized it would never fly. He considered other options. They would have to be appealing to Grindelwald, a proud man although one apparently not so proud as the youth in history books.

"You are too kind, but Durmstrang expelled me. _They_ would not offer me a position. I am an embarrassment to them. I will certainly get no offers from another school, but I will find something."

"Would you consider tutoring me, over the holidays? I couldn't afford this full time, but just for a month I suspect I could."

"I doubt your family would want to be associated with this. What would your parents say?"

"I _would_ have to talk to Mother, but I've typically had the best tutors, although nothing like you. And it would just be a few hours a day. We could spend some time trying to find you a suitable career. My family still has connections, although less so than after Voldemort's defeat. You'd have better luck in London than Europe."

"I was planning on going to the Americas - where memories are short - but I will consider your idea. It is not without merit."

At this point a Doctor – Draco struggled for a moment and came up with Zharkov, but didn't think he knew the first name. Doctor Zharkov sported a neatly trimmed brown beard speckled with gray and wore the red robes that Peverell had instituted for medical staff. "There are other patients, Gellert. Draco, it's time to fix up your arm. I'll just need to put you to sleep for the procedure." Draco knew patients were always unconscious when they went through healing, just to keep the details hidden. The doctor pulled out his wand.

Draco placed the cup on the table and slid back down into the bed. Gellert said his goodbye and stood up, barely brushing the doctors arm as he cast _Somnum!_ But the slight touch sent the spell into the sheets next to Draco, barely missing him.

Draco, realizing what had just happened, snapped his eyes shut then relaxed.

 _"_ Watch what you are doing, Gellert! If it were up to me we would have never let you out!"

"Well, it was up to _your superiors_ , Hans _,_ and they did. Besides, the boy is asleep. You know I cannot interfere. It was an accident. I would not touch you on purpose."

Doctor Zharkov grunted and Draco heard the _Levicorpus!_ And felt himself lifted off the bed and several pairs of hands guide him down the hall and into the medical procedure room. As they passed through the door, the second Thief's Downfall splashed on him, cold, but he'd been expecting it and didn't gasp or react, and it disappeared shortly. (Draco realized months ago that he could mimic the visual effect of the Thief's Downfall with a slightly modified Comed-Tea, but hadn't figured out a use for that tactic). Draco felt himself placed gently and then all the spells on him were dispelled. He could feel his arm itching, but he didn't hear any casting.

Perhaps they cast wordlessly? But why? It required more effort and healing didn't need the element of surprise. Draco let his head slowly loll over to the left side and cracked his left eye barely open. He could see a delicate wand flicking above him, and a wooden mannequin arm being attached. He was lying on a padded table but was actually resting on a stretcher, it seemed. It happened quickly, already the arm up to the elbow looked just like his old arm, perhaps a touch paler. Draco closed his eye and thought about it.

Free Transfiguration was wordless. You envisioned the form. Like every student who ever took Professor McGonagall's course, Draco had memorized the rules for transfiguration and they jumped out at him.

 _Transfiguration is not permanent!_

 _I will not transfigure any living subject! It will make you sick and possibly dead._

If this were a fixed transformation, they'd say a charm. Draco shoved back his panic. He knew that other people had been cured, so obviously this worked. No doubt healers specialized in this, so there was no need to panic. Peverell had replaced plenty of limbs. After another minute or two he felt Doctor Zharkov lift his arm, massage the muscles, stretch out the fingers.

"OK, that's good. Finish up." He heard the Doctor go back through the downfall and then he felt the poles on either side of him lift up as he was carried (carried?) through a doorway opposite the one he came in. The stretcher was placed gently on another table and Draco risked cracking his eye open, again. The room, the part he could see anyway, looked identical to the previous one in size, but less ornate. One hand placed a stone on Draco's arm. It was small and blood red, perhaps the size of a scarab but irregular, like a sculptor hadn't finished polishing it. Draco didn't feel anything in his arm.

Draco did feel like he'd pressed his luck hard enough. He didn't feel the confidence and presence of Felix Felicis - hadn't felt it for a few minutes - so Draco closed his eyes thirty long seconds before he felt the stone turn slightly on his skin. Draco was sure that nobody else had moved it, he'd heard the orderlies step away from him. But right after it turned he heard Chocolate Frog Witch say "OK, he's set" and grabbed the Stone off his arm while the other orderly cast _Levicorpus_ on him and floated him gently into the recovery area.


	26. Security Conscious, Part 2

_"How did you avoid getting damaged during the War, Father?"_

 _"Everyone gets damaged, Draco. You just continue on."_

* * *

The healers floated Draco, still pretending to sleep, into the recovery room. Draco knew that patients who woke up prior to recovery got obliviated. He half expected to be obliviated in any case. Draco had walked the area often enough - probing for security weakness - and knew that most patients got up within about half an hour, inspected themselves, and left.

No slow recoveries at Peverell.

Draco spent twenty minutes trying to consider what he had learned and what it implied, but his mind kept going back to his arm ripping off, the pain, and then the flash of fire as Hermione arrived with her Phoenix, right before he passed out, the world blurred behind tears. Draco replayed is several times, shivering. He couldn't focus well. Without the distraction of something to do, something to learn, Draco relived his memories. After a few more near-deaths Draco heard Mad Eye Moody clomping around, and felt relieved to be back in the present. The footsteps stopped at his bed and Draco forced himself to keep his breathing regular, but not too regular. After a minute or two they clomped off. Draco counted out five minutes before 'waking up.'

His robes spoke volumes. The left arm was torn ragged at the shoulder, mud and blood caked together turning the normally black clothe an angry brown hue, streaked with red. Draco sat up and spent a few minutes poking his left arm. It felt ... like his arm. He'd had a small mole below his elbow, now missing, and the color seemed paler below the shoulder than above it, but it looked like his arm. His hand worked normally, and didn't hurt. Not now, at least.

"Hello Draco," said a young witch who'd walked up to the foot of his bed. Draco hadn't noticed, he'd been entranced with his new arm. The witch had long black hair under an outlandish oversize hat, wide brimmed and trimmed with gardenias. Her robe was stylish but ill-fitting, and she had a long grey shawl thrown on top of it. She looked to be a sixth year, maybe sixteen or so but Draco didn't recognize her. Draco stared at the hat again, and the witch started laughing. Not a girlish giggle, but a strong guffawing laugh.

Draco remembered where he was.

"Madam Longbottom?" The witch stifled her laughter long enough to make a formal curtsy that may have been in style during Abraxis Malfoy's youth.

"I happened to be in the stands watching this battle – they've become quite the event, you know, particularly the massive battles that involve all classes – and was sitting next to the Headmistresses when we heard the commotion. Neville had already been knocked out of the fight, he did quite well and I know from his letters that you and Potter have been tutoring him,"

"I think he would come along in any case," Draco interjected.

"Yes, well, I know he's also been talking to you about his parents. Like I told you last summer, it's rare that we both got someone back, and Neville hasn't had an easy time of it. Well, they wouldn't let anyone in to see you, some hogwash about security, but they couldn't very well deny me my cure, now could they? I must admit, I am rather delighted by it." She started to laugh, but then caught herself and giggled, which made her seem younger still. She twirled around, giggling. "You know, I've always felt like I was in my twenties, even yesterday, although I know how I looked. But the years creep up. I didn't remember how it feels, to be young!"

"Most of the people I've seen choose to be in their mid-twenties, or perhaps thirty," Draco agreed.

"Well, if you are going to get young, _get young_ I say. I asked for a few years younger but the healers refused. Times were different from now, when I was this age, the first time. Now I plan on enjoying every moment of it, but I did want to make sure that they took good care of you, and to thank you for your talks with Neville, and those lovely thank you notes. That means a lot to an old woman," she said smiling.

"I'm doing well, thank you. All things considered." Draco clenched and unclenched his left hand, and suddenly realized he had no idea where his wand was. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter.

"Well, then, I suspect your friends are all waiting. I'll pop you back to Hogwarts, and won't we make quite the entrance?"

* * *

Despite her promise – or threat – Augusta had simply escorted Draco over to the Hogwart's infirmary then quickly took her leave before she could shock Neville or any other students. Madam Pomfrey fretted over Draco for a few minutes before releasing him. As he left Draco spotted Hestia Carrow lying asleep, bandages covering half of her face and most of her body. Asleep she looked just like any other girl, not the bloodthirsty witch who'd attacked him several times this year. Draco felt bad for her, for a brief moment. He'd been watching her for about a minute when Harry Potter walked into the infirmary.

Harry stopped beside Draco. "It's funny, in a way. You were so badly hurt they simply had to fix you up, but her wounds will heal normally." Draco shot him a glance and Harry said, "I figured you didn't want to talk about it – that's kind of normal – so I'm just making small talk. I grabbed one of your spare sets of robes from the room, if you want." Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch and said "Draco's Robes."

After Draco had changed they walked in silence for a few minutes, slowly descending from the infirmary back to the school. "So," Draco asked, "what happens now?"

"I have no idea. Detention for going into the forbidden forest, but beyond that? I don't know... " At that moment Draco and Harry turned a corner were face-to-face with a scowling Professor Lockhart.

"Beyond that," said Lockhart, "we will see. Come with me, Draco." He turned down a hallway and strode off without waiting for Draco.

"We'll talk later," Draco said under his breath, then caught up with the Professor. Lockhart quietly reached into his robes – the motion set off alarms in Draco's head, but the Professor pulled out Draco's wand and handed it to him.

"That was a stupid thing to do, Draco," said Lockhart, handing back Draco's wand, "A calculated risk, I suppose, but stupid. But since I had an inkling that something like that might happen no harm done. Still, you should know better than to rush into uncharted territory that you've been explicitly warned about."

"I wasn't thinking," said Draco, and realized it was the truth. He'd merely followed wherever the liquid luck had guided him.

"No, you weren't. Despite what Potter doubts there is a serious debate about expulsions, although Professor Slughorn is talking the Headmistress down. Look, I'm worried." Professor Lockhart stopped and turned to face Draco. "Not just about the attacks. I know you've gotten in over your head in … something."

Draco hoped he betrayed no sign of the shock he felt. "Oh, it's just school work and stress."

"I know for a fact it isn't that," said Lockhart icily, "but I'm not going to pry. You are flying bareback on a Dragon and holding on for dear life. You hide it well, but not from me." Professor Lockhart turned and strode off, still talking. "I know it's important, at least, you consider it important. When the time comes, I hope you remember my offer to help."

Draco's head was whirling. Professor Lockhart seemed ... eerily well informed. Draco considered further and realized that the Professor hadn't actually said anything concrete. He'd made guesses, spun a vague story that made Draco feel important. Lockhart probably had been informed by his other professors. Slughorn seemed friendly with him, and had probably played both sides as well as his own game. After a few more steps Draco's confidence returned, but he'd already started speaking.

"Thank you, Professor. It feels good to have an ally like you in this." Two months ago Draco would have considered the matter settled, but now he knew Lockhart wasn't a stereotypical Gryffindor who could be placated by appeals to glory and vanity. He suspected the Professor saw Draco's acceptance as a stall.

That didn't make stalling wrong, just less effective.

"On a more practical matter, would you like me to lock away your memories of the attack?" asked Professor Lockhart, "Most people find that kind of thing unpleasant, and they suffered a lot less than you did."

Draco considered this for several steps. He definitely needed his memories of the recovery. Professor Lockhart piped up.

"I can leave in the details, the knowledge, but you wouldn't remember how it felt, just that it happened. Like you read it in a book."

Draco felt sorely tempted. "My memories are who I am," he said flatly. Professor Lockhart shot him a questioning look, then shrugged.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Draco asked, to change the subject.

"Oh, we're here," said Lockhart, as they stopped before the Prefect's restroom outside the great hall. "You did die before sunset, I'm afraid. Rotten luck, that."

* * *

 _Monday Morning_

"Professor Asimov," Draco said, "Thanks for the insights into the Muggle legal system ... systems, I guess." They were in Proffessor Asimov's study, Draco had a few questions about the Muggle legal and financial system. Harry's snide comment about wizarding lawyers being 'cute' had stuck in Draco's mind and he wanted another opinion. Professor Asimov had used the American legal system as a reference, but the facts were boggling. Contracts that were hundreds or thousands of pages long, lawyers working in teams, trials taking years. Madness.

Draco stifled a yawn. Even by his standards he hadn't slept well the night since his encounters with the Triffid, when he had nothing to do but remember.

"I do have one other question. My friend Harry Potter said that Science Fiction has solved - or at least addressed - problems that magicians have, if you can just translate the ideas correctly. But unlike him I haven't read it my whole life..."

"What do you need, Draco?" said Professor Asimov.

"Suppose we have a creature that's clever and useful, but dangerous. In the past we'd just avoid and kill them, but we have a spell that can force this creature to do what we want."

"Very convenient, that," said Professor Asimov. "But this sounds remarkably like slavery," his tone was dark.

"It could be construed that way, but the spell can be shaped to be minimally restrictive. We could make this creature do whatever we want, but we could just say 'Don't kill anyone.' But these are clever, malevolent creatures and they hunt for loopholes where they don't kill directly, but still harm and injure. Even if we wanted to, we couldn't setup on an exhaustive condition of rules. But the spell is draining. Permanently. And the more instructions given the more power the caster looses, so we want to give a minimal set of instructions that can cover all situations cleanly, and don't leave any loopholes, while still granting the creature full use of it's abilities. We don't want to cripple it, at least any more than necessary. I realize this is probably something far fetched …."

"I do believe I have just the thing," said Professor Asimov, pulling _I, Robot_ from the shelf.


	27. Problem Solving

_"Great plotting can be learned. Perhaps it can also be taught, but if so I do not know how. You must use your experience and intuition, those are the best teachers I know of. At best, I can only teach you how to avoid bad plots." - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

The Bayesian Conspiracy, now one larger, found time to squeeze in one last session before exams and winter break that didn't conflict with Draco's detention. Harry had used the delay to help Blaise get up to speed.

"I know that I said I'd try to discuss how you come up with solutions," Harry said just as Draco was walking in, still covered in dust. "For something practical in battle. It's actually surprisingly difficult for me to describe this. I don't want to sound like I'm bragging, but usually I just kind of … see the solution. Then I double check it. That's important, because sometimes you see the wrong solution. But it's hard to explain how I do it."

"How can you do something but not know how?" Blaise asked. His cat-like eyes had narrowed to slits, like he still expected an ambush, but he didn't seem shy. Zabini radiated a confidence Draco suspected he didn't feel. Draco cast a few minor spells to clean himself up.

"Gregory," said Harry, "You've seen Neville fly. You're the best flyer here. What's Neville doing wrong?" Neville let out an annoyed snort, but didn't contradict Harry. Daphne giggled a bit, until Hermione gave her a piercing look.

"His balance looks off," Gregory said after a pause. "I can't really explain."

"Gregory can't explain because true mastery means doing things automatically, without thinking. Some great artists can tell you why they picked a colour, but others would just say 'It looked right.' If Gregory stopped and thought about what he was doing when he was flying, he'd fall out of the sky. Like Draco said earlier this year, in a battle you don't feel like you are thinking. When I solve a problem, _I solve it_. Sometimes I have to think about how I'm thinking about it, but sometimes I don't. Anyway, I went back and solved some puzzles since last time and _paid attention to how I thought_ , so I can explain it better. But I had to do it with maths puzzles," he finished sheepishly.

Everyone groaned. Harry continued. "Sorry, but it's easier to explain and experiment with. I won't do anything complicated but I had to pick something simpler. A battle just has too many variables for me to explain. This is more about technique. But look, here's a puzzle. You have to make an 8 digit number, using each digit 1-4 twice. So, 11223344, or 12341234. Something like that. But you want to make one so that there is exactly a single digit between the two '1's, and two digits between the '2's, and three between the '3's and four digits between the '4's. It's not really even a maths puzzle, see? Just a regular puzzle using digits. Go ahead and try and do it, and think about what you are doing."

Harry took out some paper and pencils. Hermione took one and started writing figures and scratching them out. The others reluctantly followed.

"Come on," said Harry. " _Try it_."

Hermione got the answer quickly, but three minutes later nobody else had solved it. Neville, sweat beading on his forehead, fidgeted as he started again. Draco had been scratching out numbers and writing new ones diligently, but showed no progress. Harry had been walking around and looking over shoulders. "OK, The rest of you are stuck. Let me give you a hint."

"Problem solving is about meeting constraints. In a battle your constraint is what spell or strategy to use. In this, it's the order of the digits. But what if you have a lot of constraints? Deal with the most restrictive constraint first. That usually narrows down the solution space – the number of different answers you have to consider – quickly. There are lots of 8 digit numbers. Even if you only consider those with the digits 1-4 twice. We don't want to try them all. We want to solve the hardest constraint first. The one that narrows down the possible answers fastest. Now try it again."

"It's like you are speaking another language," Draco complained as they started again.

"He does that a lot," said Neville. "I thought you'd be used to it."

This time Blaise and Daphne got it relatively quickly.

Harry still walked around the room, inspecting work and offering encouragement. "Maybe it's a maths thing, Draco. Don't let it block you because it's not your standard subject. In this case, the constraints are how you build the numbers. You can't change the fact that it has 8 digits, or the fact that it has four pairs of numbers. Those are just part of the problem. But how you arrange them, those are the constraints. What's the most restrictive constraint, Hermione?"

"The fours. They have to have the most digits between them."

Harry took out some paper. "Right, there are only a few ways that can work." He scratched them out.

4xxxx4xx

x4xxxx4x

xx4xxxx4

"The first and last are the same, just reversed. Symmetry is another way to cut down the number of solutions, but that's specific to math and not often in the real world. Anyway, now we've got two candidate solutions. The one with a four at the end, and then one with both fours one off the end. So now the most restrictive constraint is how to place the threes. If you put a three right next to the first four the other three won't fit three spaces away. So you can try two places."

4x3xx43x

4xx3x4x3

"And you can keep going if you have to, or you can just see the solution." He pushed the paper to Draco, who examined the two numbers above and wrote out.

41312432.

"Yes. Or the mirror image, due to symmetry. That's how I solved it. Combinatorics aren't my strong suit but If I've done my calculations right we started with 1,260 possible legal 8 digit numbers that have the digits 1-4 twice. And we quickly came down to two patterns that might work with the first constraint, and by adding the second constraint we got close enough to the solution we could just see it. The constraint let you not have to just keep trying random things, and let you get to the answer quickly."

"Anyway, for puzzles like that I have a bag of tricks. But the general technique is simple: Understand the problem. You have to know what you've got to work with and what you are trying to do. You'd be surprised how often just looking at what you can work with gives you a clue to the answer."

Draco interrupted. "But in the real world you can do practically anything. Not like a math puzzle."

"That's true," said Harry. "But especially in the real world clearly defining your goals may clarify the situation. Still, it's a good general technique. Anyway, after you understand the problem you look how to link what you know and what you are trying to do. Then you carry out your plan, you do the solution, examine your strategy. And you see if the answer works."

Daphne said, "That's still vague."

Harry nodded. "I know. If you didn't have a strategy you could just try every legal combination until you found it. That's a plan. It's not a great plan, but if you can't think of something better it works. Science doesn't care how you get the right answer, whether it's counting on your fingers or doing calculus. Efficiency comes from practice. Draco, what's nine times seven?"

Draco barely paused "Sixty-three."

"Right, you didn't have to think. But if I asked for larger numbers you'd take longer. If I asked a big enough number you'd need a pencil and paper and a lot of time. Just because a solution exists doesn't mean you can get to easily, even if you know what to do."

"Anyway, here are some techniques I use that don't specifically apply to math. But I'll use math examples. You could try to think of a similar problem, or a related problem. That may clear it up. In the real world history is often a good guide. Muggle Science Fiction books often address problems similar to things I've seen here, and Professor Asimov is an expert in that field. If you can explain the magic he may have seen a clever solution before. I found a cool dueling idea in one of his stories and I'm sure there are lots of great ideas I've missed. In fact, several of my battle ideas came from books. And no, I'm not going to tell you which ones."

"Sometimes I think he reads books just to annoy me," Hermione whispered to Daphne, while Harry was talking. _  
_

"If he likes you, he does anything to annoy you," she whispered back. Then, a bit louder, "Or if you like him...everything he does annoys you."

Draco tried not to show any emotion during that last speech. He didn't inspect Harry for any sign. _Did Harry know that he'd been consulting with Professor Asimov?_ Draco worried about it for a few seconds, then realized it didn't matter. Harry's use of Unbreakable Vows weren't much of a secret, the entire staff knew about them, so Draco's investigations could be easily explained as just testing Peverell's security for weakness. Asimov's Three Laws didn't seem to apply directly to Unbreakable Vows, but Harry had _probably_ used the approach of simple layered directives in an order of precedence, with more layers for Grindelwald than for trusted Aurors ... Draco realized his focus had wandered and turned his attention back to Harry, who was still talking.

"What else? You could solve a really simple version of the problem, then a slightly harder version, and look for a pattern. Proof by induction is messy, but powerful. Or you could try to break the problem into a bunch of smaller problems. Or try to solve a much harder version..."

"That doesn't make any sense at all," said Neville. "If I can't solve a simple problem how can I solve a harder one?"

"A harder problem forces you to be creative. For example, if I asked you to add up all the numbers from 1 to 10? You'd probably just add it up. But what if I asked you to add up the numbers from 1 to 100? Or a thousand? Or a million?" Harry paused. "Another trick is to assume there is a solution. Let me tell you a story. A Muggle teacher told his students - kids younger than us - to add up the numbers from 1 to 100 to keep them busy. And one kid gave the correct answer in a minute. Way too fast to do it the long way. Granted, that kid turned into a great mathematician, but he had a simple insight."

"I thought this wasn't about maths," said Hermione, to general approval.

"OK, let me think about something I can admit to," Harry said. "You think about the problem. Don't try to solve it, just try to think of what the insight is."

Harry though while they doodled with math. He glanced at the papers and said "Daphne's on the right track." Everyone looked over her paper. Daphne had written 1,2,3, and then skipped the middle and written 98,99,100. They all looked at her paper.

"They add to one hundred and one!" said Hermione. "One plus one hundred, two plus ninety nine, three plus ninety eight." She drew lines connecting them.

"Yes, that's the key insight. The rest of it is technical, and we don't have to worry about the rest. Anyway, the problem I had was that newspapers were writing trash about me. My first thought was: I need to get them to stop. But that's not the right question. This is just like the eight digit number. We need to understand the problem. So let's restate it clearly. The Prophet wrote rumours about me and _I was worried that people believed them._ You see what that does?"

"You don't have to get them to stop, you are just trying to keep people from believing them," said Daphne. "So you got them to publish that ridiculous story about Ginny Weasley."

"Well, not that exactly. But restating the problem clearly gave me the key insight: I had a new way to attack the problem. Anyway, after I had the idea I didn't actually implement it. I was here at school, in any case. But when Headmaster Dumbledore read the article he demanded to know how I'd done it. He thought I'd spent my entire inheritance and started working through all the things he would have to do to get that story published. When I told him I'd just spent forty Galleons he figured it out almost instantly."

"By making the problem harder," Draco said slowly, "you gave him another constraint, And that was enough."

"Right. My sunlight potion came from the constraint that I had fewer people in my army. Focusing on constraints lets you zoom in on the right option."

"And what if you still don't see it?" asked Blaise.

"Then you try something else. If you have time, maybe you try every solution. Look, rationality keeps you from making mistakes and it points the way. In science, we build experiments, but usually a scientist has a decade of experience to guide them. People spent years trying to figure out the structure of a chemical called Benzene. A chemist named Kekulé had a dream about it, his subconscious gave him the answer. He used the scientific technique and skills as a rationalist to build experiments to verify the answer. But how he got there was no better than a guess. Sometimes you just get lucky, although having a good bag of techniques helps you make your own luck. A real problem usually blends many skills. With experience, you'll recognize patterns and solutions."

Harry paused. "I know that I warn against seeing patterns where none exist. That's a real problem for people. But our minds are amazingly good at spotting patterns, so if you think you've found a pattern its usually a good idea to test it, even if it just popped into your head."

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- Polya's " _How to Solve it_ " has an extensive list of heuristics and examples for pure math problems (not puzzles). I stumbled across the first puzzle (the eight digit number) presented here on kottke dot org , which often has delightful little puzzles like that (some of which I can solve, some of which I cannot). Solving that puzzle inspired this chapter.


	28. Holiday Shopping

_"A man who tells lies may hide the truth, but he remembers it. A man who tells half-lies forgets the truth entirely." - Lucius Malfoy  
_

* * *

 _December 22nd_

"That's ... expensive," said Draco, then hastily appended "Not unreasonable, just quite expensive."

Griphook sat across from Draco, in the table set up inside the Malfoy vault. He stared at the small boy and screwed his face into his closest approximation of a pleasant smile. It came across as predatory.

"You want these things, and you want them quickly," said Griphook. His eyes were staring at the cane on the table, completely ignoring the quill recording their words into Draco's journal. When he'd first entered the vault Griphook had inspected the journal with some interest. It was clearly powerful, but not made by Goblins. _Unlike that Sigil of House Malfoy_. Draco, trained by history and knowledgeable about the Goblin revolutions, wasn't surprised by this.

"Perhaps instead of paying so much up front I could return the items earlier?" Draco offered.

Griphook shook his head, "To create these items quickly requires expensive components and crafting. My already generous terms are a token of esteem. Your House has never reneged on a deal and always returns our creations in a timely manner."

Draco nodded. All prior deals were studiously recorded in the family history. Griphook's price - though steep - fell well within the typical range.

"Very well. You may take payment from my vault as of next week." There were no handshakes or contracts. Goblins worked on their word, and were truthful to it, _if_ you understood the nuances. Draco knew exactly how much House Malfoy had driven the subjugation of the Goblin race and he suspected Griphook knew it, too. Griphook didn't like him, but knew that powerful people - of all races - played both sides from time to time.

Personal feelings aside, Griphook would profit from this deal. They both knew it, that was all that mattered.

Griphook, now acting as an employee of Gringotts instead of a personal broker, gave a small bow as he stood up. "Will there be anything else?"

Draco made a gesture with his wand, and the quill dropped to the table, still. He picked up his journal and examined the record.

"I will be down here for a few hours conducting my inventory and writing correspondence," said Draco. Griphook nodded. Clients often wrote inside their vaults for security. "Please send someone down an hour before closing, I wish to discuss issues of security. No, I have no doubts about the security of my vault, I wish to see if I can acquire some similar security measures elsewhere."

Griphook's eyebrows raised. "That would also be expensive, if allowed."

"Well, in that case I will talk to you about it. Oh, and as for our … arrangement. Please do not discuss it with me at any point. Simply send a letter when the items are ready and I will arrange to have them delivered."

If Griphook thought this an odd request, he gave no indication of it and merely said "As you prefer." Draco nodded and Griphook showed himself out, closing the vault door securely behind him. Draco finished reading the transcript, then picked up the nearby quill and wrote out:

 _As before, conceal this information until the appropriate time._

He had barely finished writing when the words reformed.

 _I again counsel against this course of action. It is too dangerous._

Draco considered this, particularly the word 'again.' How many times had it been? He didn't know, of course. That was the entire point.

 _It is dangerous, but not too dangerous. "_ And there are too many _Legilimens_ around," he mumbled to himself. Draco put down the quill and the book journal shut abruptly, a chiding gesture Draco had learned to recognize. A minor petulant tantrum. Draco pulled out his wand, and scanned the vault, as if some master thief could breach Gringott's security and follow him here but be foolish enough to stand in plain sight. Draco chuckled as he steadied his wand, laughed at his own instinct, the useless caution. He took several deep breaths and lowered his head to the table then pointed the wand at his forehead, concentrating and then casting his spell. He felt his panic rise, wondered if it happened every time then cast his spell:

 ** _Obliviate_**

* * *

Draco put aside the formal letters, and glanced at his watch. He'd fallen asleep during his inventory of magical items, so it had taken far longer than he'd expected. He barely had half an hour left to finish his letters, and he'd been putting off this last one. He quickly filled out the cover letter, instructing his solicitor for the conditions of delivery. That was the easy part. After he finished that Draco pulled out a formal scroll, elegant, and dipped his quill into the ink.

 _To my friend Harry Potter,_

 _I write you this letter on Winter Break inside Malfoy Vault, safe from any scrying. Here it will stay, hopefully never to be read, because I have left my solicitor instructions to deliver this letter if I die betraying you. I hope it does not come to that._

Draco sighed, dipped his quill into the ink, then continued writing.

* * *

 _December 23rd  
_

Mundungus Fletcher shifted nervously in his booth, both hands cupped around his firewhiskey as though it would keep him warm. And safe.

"Don't fink I don't know Armageddon Robes when I see 'em. Good quality, too. Iff'n you want to sell it at some point..."

The figure hidden inside the Armageddon Robes sat, unmoving. There was a face inside it, but Mundungus couldn't see it. He saw nothing but the outline of the cloak. Most wizards say Armageddon Robes were forged by the same dark magic that allowed Dementors into the world, for the cloaks hid their wearers not by illusion but by fear. You could easily find out who it was just by pulling back the hood.

 _If you could overcome your fear._

It wasn't even that gripping of a fear. Nothing nearly as powerful as a Dementor. Just a cold chill. Most people could gather their resolve and pull back the hood. Few, except Aurors, would risk it in any case because wearing an Armageddon Robe advertised that you were up to no good and didn't want to be recognized. Armageddon Robers weren't a concealment, they were a threat. The real fear the robes inspired were that if you pulled them back, you'd face the wrath of a powerful wizard who may kill you on the spot. The figure in the robes slowly raised his right hand, wand pointing at Mundungus.

"Look, mate. No need fer all that. I ain't gassed nobody yet and you don't want me to know who you 'ar then I don't want to know. Mum didn't raise no fools."

The wand slowly lowered and the other hand slid a sheet of paper across. Mundungus picked it up, read it and blanched.

"I don' know who told you what, but I don't associate with those types. I just buy and sell. Them? They've no respect for the working stiffs like me. They'd as like to kill me iff'n I actually found them. Murderers. _Wanted murderers,_ not just those who you hear rumours about. I just buy and sell." He gulped down his firewhiskey.

The figure slowly pushed across a sealed letter then placed a bag of Galleons on top of it. Mundungus stared at the bag greedily. "I'm not promising nuffin," he said as he picked them up and they disappeared into his sleeves.

Draco Malfoy, hidden by the Armageddon Robes he'd found during his inventory, smiled to himself and got up from the table.

* * *

 _Dec 26th, Boxing Day_

Harry, Vince and Gregory all unwrapped their boxes and opened them. The remnants of their late lunch were still spread across the table.

"I got us all an identical set of dress robes," Draco said. He'd considered getting Harry some Noble robes as well, but that would leave Vincent and Gregory out. They all pulled on the robes. "These all have the extra enchantments that House Malfoy gets for their robes, to prevent staining, ripping or shredding. Basically, if these robes show any sign of damage, you probably won't be in any condition to care."

Vincent and Gregory saw Draco's small shudder.

"And they'll adjust in size as we do, of course. Very important for wizards our age."

* * *

Hermione opened the letter that had been left on her windowsill. The elegant writing, the red wax seal on the envelope, and the overall style marked the writer. Nobody else put much effort into their letters. Hermione looked around but didn't see Draco's owl on any of the nearby rooftops. She leaned out her window and whistled, and an answering hoot came. Hermione craned her head up and saw Tanaxu standing on the chimney. Owls apparently don't like sharing a room with a Phoenix. She pulled herself back into her bedroom and turned to Xare, "When did this letter arrive?"

" _CAW!"_ Xare said, mixing the screech with the audio equivalent of a shrug. _Phoenixes were wonderful,_ Hermione thought as she broke the seal, _but didn't have any sense of time_. Probably a side-effect of being immortal. _Will I be the same, after a few hundred or thousand years, if I live that long?_ She looked inside the envelope. There was a card, and a small parchment poking out behind it. She pulled the card out and read it.

 _From Draco, son of Lucius, son also of Narcissa, scion and heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy:_

 _To Hermione, daughter of Leo, daughter also of Roberta, Lady of the Noble House of Granger_

 _I would be honoured if you would join me for a viewing of The Tragedy of Light at the Globe Theater on the evening of Tuesday, December 29_ _th_ _._

 _Draco_

Hermione read the card several times. She thrilled at the thought of being invited on a formal date (instead of having to trick a boy into it). On the third reading she noticed that Draco had omitted most of his title, shortening it so that it matched Hermione's title in length. He'd also dropped most of the flourishes he used in formal correspondence. She wasn't sure, but she thought that Draco had used the bare minimum for politeness, trying to keep the tone informal and pleasant instead of stuffily aristocratic.

She put the card aside and read the parchment.

 _Hermione,_

 _Please excuse the form of the invitation. There is a production of The Tragedy of Light I had been hoping to attend, and I though you would like to join me. I've enjoyed Muggle Movie Night and thought you might enjoy seeing a wizard's play, although I'll warn you not many Griffyndors like it. Some mild chaperoning will be involved, but it should be discrete. Please let me know by owl at your earliest convenience._

 _Draco_

 _PS I'm embarrassed to admit that it would be easiest to travel by Phoenix, but I can make other arrangements if you prefer._

* * *

 _December 27th_

Draco rounded the corner, jacket tightly wrapped about him against the winter cold. It was a touch under ten degrees, despite the sun shining brightly this afternoon, for once.

"Hey guys," he said. There was a small crowd of teenagers, mostly fifteen and sixteen years old, smoking in the alley off Picadilly Circus. They wore jackets, some leather but some just plain old winter coats. Underneath, Draco knew they'd be wearing T-shirts for various bands, but it was too cold.

"Tom!" said a Roger, a husky guy with black hair in small ringlets whose stubble of several days didn't make him look nearly as rough as he imagined. He tossed his cigarette down on the ground and came over and grabbed Draco in a bear hug. "They let you out of St. Brutus after all!" he said, laughing.

"Hey Roger," Draco said, "I brought my cousin. Hope that's ok?" Draco motioned back to the corner, and Robert nodded at them all. The groups joviality dropped slightly, which Draco had expected. After all, they had several years and half a foot on him, but Jugson was even older. "This is Robert."

Robert nodded curtly and said "Hi," while Draco went around the group. "Roger, Samantha but everyone calls her Sam, Dave, Mike." They all nodded, but Sam, the short red-head, seemed taken with Robert, which caused some hidden scowls.

"You a Felton, too, Robert?" Sam asked, blushing slightly.

Jugson wasn't comfortable around Muggles, and his discomfort showed, but he'd agreed to play along with Draco and his brief time spent in Professor Asimov's class had shown him the 'Draco Malfoy' was a name that would stand out in a crowd. Still, he'd quickly grasped the implication …. Draco had invented his Muggle persona _before_ taking Muggle Studies. This had been part of Draco's test: to see if Robert Jugson would actually treat Muggles as equal and bite his tongue. Robert was of age, having turned seventeen last month, if he wanted to stun and obliviate this lot of Muggles there was nothing Draco could do about it.

"I'm a Jugson. My mum and Tom's mum are sisters." Robert shook hands and tried bumming a cigarette from Mike, a wiry lad who actually looked dangerous and had a spiderweb tattoo creeping up his neck. Mike just looked at Robert's outstretched fingers and raised eyebrow, then sighed and shook out a cigarette.

"You at St. Brutus' as well," asked Mike. Robert just laughed once and took a drag on the cigarette – a lighter had appeared in Sam's hands the instant he put it in his mouth."

"I'm thinking of not going back," Robert said. He didn't cough, just held the smoke and then released it. Draco wondered if that were a spell or if Robert actually smoked. Most of the older wizards had at least tried it. There was some small talk and Draco shucked off his jacket.

The small talk died as the group of Muggle watched Draco's shirt. It was a plain white tee shirt, with an outline of an Aztec sun, but as the watched the fabric changed colours to sparkling yellow and a rainbow background. There were gasps.

"How does it do that?" Roger asked.

"What am I, some egghead?" answered Draco lightly, then chuckled. "It's some chemical, reacts to sunlight. One of my relatives, he gave me this at Christmas." Draco's shirt brightened in the sunlight, and Draco tried not act cold. It actually wasn't that bad, but the wind was picking up. The glamour was a relatively minor one, the type that would be applied to robes, but the novel approach was mixing it with a sunlight trigger. Draco had gotten the idea from Harry's sunlight-capturing potion. Grindelwald – a master of Transfiguration – had been intrigued by the idea of robes that changed color in sunlight and had helped work out the formula.

"Wow!" said Mike, looking more interested than dangerous. "Where'd he buy it at?"

"They're pretty expensive," Draco said, "and I don't think you can buy them in London yet. Apparently the company mainly sells them on nice beach islands. My uncle knows a guy thinking of importing them. They'd be pretty pricey, maybe sixty pounds each."

"Oh, I'd definitely buy one," said Sam, "or nick one at least."

"Oh yeah," said Roger. "Definitely cool."

* * *

Draco stood in front of his fireplace, warming up.

"You see?" he said to Jugson. "They'd be popular."

"Yes, but it's violating the magical secrecy act," Robert said, but Draco could tell from his tone it wasn't a serious objection, just stating a fact.

"Well, we'll produce them in the Caribbean. They have the same laws, but are a bit more …. open to interpretation. Besides, these will sell much better in a beach climate. How often could you really wear sunlight powered shirts in this weather? But I don't think there's a serious risk. Those muggle's just think it's chemistry – which really is just another version of potions and Transfiguration – and for all we know Muggles may be able to do this. We'll do it magically at first, hire a few local wizards. Then we'll figure out a Muggle way later to increase production. We'll make these shirts and sell them for an obscene amount of money to tourists."

"Muggle money, but yeah. So what do you need me for?"

"I'm going to stay in school, but I want to start this right away. You go out to the Caribbean handle day-to-day operations and also be the muggle expert in the company."

"What, me?" said Robert.

"We're going to have to hire a lot of Muggle bankers and lawyers to make sure that nobody catches on. I'll assist with that as best I can, I can do that while at school. And someone has to be the public face of the company. Between the two of you, you are most up to date on Muggles."

"Two," said Robert blankly as the footsteps started coming down the stairs.

"Yes. Our third partner. Robert Jugson, I'd like you to meet Gellert Grindelwald."

* * *

 **Author's Note** – The quote from Lucius is a modification of the famous quote from Lawrence of Arabia (the movie).

Del Sol was publicly founded in 1994, according to the Muggle Wikipedia.


	29. The Date, Part 1

Hermione stood on the doorstep of Malfoy Manor, checking herself in her mirror once she'd knocked on the door. Her hair hadn't gotten messed up, of course. Her hair never messed up. Draco answered. Hermione saw his surprise. As promised, Draco had taught her anti-glamour spells earlier in the year and she'd been using them for the last two months to dampen her aura of purity, but she'd removed them for her date. Her mum had spent hours fussing Hermione's hair into french braid, and she wore a red and gold evening gown. Her simple chain necklace reflected the setting sun and the flames hovering around Xare, who sat on her shoulder. She smiled.

"Hello, Draco." She'd gotten over her nervousness during her preparations. _He looks nervous, though_.

"Good evening, Hermione. You look lovely," Draco stuttered, glancing down at his own robes while standing aside. "Please come in." Draco closed the door behind her. "I suddenly feel under-dressed." Hermione looked at Draco's robes: elegant, formal robes, black tinged with green. Draco looked pale, was he nervous? Well, that didn't bother Hermione, she'd felt nervous for the last few hours. It was normal, on dates.

When they entered the living room Draco spoke up, "Hermione, do you mind terribly if I changed? It will just take a few minutes." Hermione frowned, confused. Draco looked fine. Xare flew from her shoulder and took one lap around the living room before landing in the fireplace. She sat on the log, soaking up the fire and sighing contentedly.

"Did I do something wrong, Draco?" Hermione asked.

"No, no! I thought you'd be going more … incognito, but that's stupid. You could hardly do that with a Phoenix..."

"She's called Xare," Hermione said.

"...with Xare. I don't know what I was thinking. Five minutes?"

Hermione smiled and Draco disappeared up the stairs. She walked over besides the fireplace and the dusty portraits gawked, introduced themselves, and complained about her dress. A recent picture, judging from the frame, studied her carefully, then said "So, you are the girl giving my grandson such fits."

Hermione looked at the portrait. The man in it carried more weight, especially in the face, than Draco or Lucius did and his hair looked strawberry blond rather than platinum, but the family resemblance was unmistakeable. She started to say something, but the portrait harrumphed and turned his back. Hermione heard footsteps coming down the stairs. _That was fast_ , but she looked up and saw a tall man descending the staircase. At first she thought it was Lucius Malfoy, before she remembered. The man could have passed as Draco's cousin or uncle, perhaps fifteen years older. As his face came into view he smiled without warmth.

"Abraxis, where are your manners?" he asked the portrait. "Miss Granger." The words were barely out of his mouth when Xare cut him of with a scream of rage and accusation, head poking out of the fireplace. Hermione recognized him at last.

"Grindelwald," she said curtly. "I didn't realize you were friends with the Malfoys." Gellert Grindelwald strolled smoothly into the room and sat down in the master chair, in front of the fire. He ignored Xare's hissing wail, then seemed to notice the Phoenix when it stopped.

"Tell me, where is Fawkes? What has become of him, now that Albus is gone?" Grindelwald steepled his fingers in front of his face, contemplating the Phoenix hissing at him. He added softly, almost to himself. "It is still strange, to have outlived him."

"I watch him," Hermione said evenly, "He and Xare keep each other company, mostly." Grindelwald seemed satisfied by the answer, and nodded.

"That is well. A Phoenix lacking his master pines and mourns. And they are picky about the company they keep. As you can see." Xare clucked disapprovingly. "If you have need, I can watch Fawkes for a time."

Hermione blinked. "Fawkes doesn't mind you?" She found it difficult to keep the edge out of her voice, but if Gellert heard any danger in her he ignored it.

"Fawkes has known me for decades, of course. You have your opinion of me, which your Phoenix shares. Fawkes shares _Albus's_ opinion of me. I think that of the two, Fawkes resents me more." He paused, "But it is a mild grudge, only. I would enjoy his company, it has been almost three seasons."

Hermione considered this, rage growing. Gellert Grindelwald caused untold suffering, misery and death, yet apparently he expected Dumbledore's Phoenix to accept his presence calmly. Harry had told her that Dumbledore visited Grindelwald in prison. He probably traveled by Phoenix. Dumbledore hadn't abandonend his friend after their fight, they'd kept a relationship. Hermione couldn't imagine it. She could see Dumbledore being cold and cordial, he'd always been friendly enough to students but the man sitting before him had been Dumbledore's peer and apparently the former Headmaster had been unable to let that relationship go, even after his eye's had opened to the evil. He'd captured Grindelwald, defeated him, and imprisoned him. But never abandoned him.

 _How could this be, from the most famous Gryffindor of the age?_

During the height of his power the man in front of her ordered the murder of innocent millions to power his dark rituals. The Muggle world blamed Hitler, but he'd been _Imperiused_. Now Hermione stood watching him soak up a nice fire in a comfortable living room. His magical power had been drained and she knew Unbreakable Vows kept Grindelwald from doing anything harm. But ... he sat free and Hermione resolved that she would not feel sorry for this man, not forgive him and not ignore his crimes.

 _Like Fawkes did._

Hermione said nothing, but her face slowly grew redder and the fireplace grew slightly brighter. She didn't know if her anger made Xare burn hotter, if the link between them drove her Phoenixes anger or if her Phoenix simply recognized evil when she saw it.

Grindelwald, noticing the fire burning higher, said "You have a kind soul, so it angers you, yes? That your friend released me?" Hermione heard Draco rushing down the stairs and Grindelwald - still staring at the fire and the Phoenix - said "Enjoy your evening, Miss Granger."

She saw Draco's finely polished shoes, black leather gleaming in the crackling light. Draco's robes were still the same colour, black tinged with green, but the fabric had a mildly metallic tint the caught the light and reflected a silvery glow. His neck clasp showed not a snake, but a silvery flower Hermione couldn't quite place. Even his hat seemed taller.

The effect _was_ impressive, she thought.

Draco proffered a delicate purple flower to Hermione. He quickly took out his wand and cast _Collorchidea_ and magically pinned the flower to her dress, just below her right shoulder. Grindelwald glanced over at the young pair of them and chuckled once before falling back into his reverie.

"Shall we?" asked Draco, grabbing his cane leaning against the chair that held one of the greatest monsters the world had known.

* * *

The Globe Theater (the real one, not the Muggle reconstruction in London) had been old in Shakespeare's youth. Even then the Globe had toured the country for centuries, magically appearing on the outskirts of the next town preceded by a small advance squad of Wizards hawking tickets for "One night only!" shows. Families would gather in an abandoned field to watch the entire structure Apparate and settle into the ground, usually only an inch or two but up to a foot if there had been recent rain. As the Wizarding world was small, the Globe was an intimate venue, able to only hold five hundred patrons. Still, for all but the largest cities it rarely sold out. But _The Tragedy of Light_ was a big seller, revived every Christmas season for a full week in London, and a few days on the continent.

Since the theater had sat still on the outskirts of town and not recently moved, there was only a small crowd of wizards gathered on the cobblestones outside the theater. The cobblestones traveled with the structure. They were a recent addition - not quite a century old - by a former manager who thought modern wizards would fork over extra knuts for 'authenticity' in the theater-going experience. Setting up the stones on nearby roads had turned a tidy profit and also kept out stray Muggles. The few couples standing outside the round, white theater were enjoying the mild snowfall, magic protecting them from the real cold, when suddenly a glow brightened like a murderous dawn and a young woman's voice could be heard.

"...believe he'd be at your house!" she finished. The red colour disappeared, leaving only a young couple, a Phoenix riding the shoulder of a girl who looked younger than the voice they'd just heard. Most of the assembled wizards and witches stared at the now-famous Hermione Granger, she who defeated Voldemort, before coughing and returning to their conversations while sneaking glances at the young couple in their peripheral vision. Several men chuckled at the boy: _who would date such a dangerous girl?_ Hermione gave them all a glance, then ignored them. This still bothered her, all the attention she got in public. At least nobody had come up to her, thanked her, asked for her autograph, or otherwise pestered her. One girl, probably eight, with a small ponytail sticking out from underneath her hat, said her name and started forward, but her parents caught her shoulder and told her not to be rude, that The-Girl-Who-Revived didn't want to be bothered.

She didn't, but Hermione wouldn't have minded being bothered by a star-struck girl.

"Wow," said Draco, stumbling. Hermione removed her arm from his shoulder. Draco ran his hands up and down his sides. "That was … odd. Do you get used to the sensation?" Draco ignored the stares of those around them, had spoken in a normal conversational tone.

"Well?" Hermione asked, still whispering like they were in a library. She felt guilty, questioning Draco on their date. Then she realized that Draco should be feeling guilty, not her. He was the one harboring a murderer. _That Harry freed_. By the time Draco answered she felt conflicted again. This was not how she'd envisioned the night going at all. She'd expected it to be awkward, or maybe for Draco to be charming, or even too glib to cover his nervousness. She hadn't expected a fight, especially one that Draco didn't seem interested in.

"Where should he go?" Draco asked calmly. A young wizard in purple robes coughed quietly, and the crowd started to move away, across the cobblestones, towards the theater. "We are going to be late."

"We'll discuss this later," Hermione said sweetly and caught an elderly witching nod and smile approvingly. Hermione's anger hadn't dissolved, but several voices in her head continued arguing about it. Draco didn't deserve _all_ of her anger, and it wasn't like she had to save the world right this moment. It could wait until after her date, when she had time to think. _And argue with Harry_.

"Certainly," said Draco, as he extended an elbow. Hermione intertwined her arm with his as they went to the will-call window.

* * *

"Why this play, Draco?" she asked quietly after the usher had escorted them to their seats. She'd left Xare in the lobby. The manager provided a sturdy iron pole for her to rest on, assuring Hermione that "many a familiar had spent a pleasant evening here" and "yours would be the 8th different Phoenix to have been in our lounge," before asking if he could take a picture. He pointed to a wall that showed a number of wizards, standing besides the same pole illuminated by the dripping fire of a Phoenix. In the last picture a middle-aged Dumbledore looked at her over half-moon glasses and nodded approvingly, while Fawkes seemed to smile besides him.

Hermione could still hear the whispers, see the pointed fingers. They'd been seated after most of the audience, but even without Xare people had recognized her, those who spotted her pointing her out to those that hadn't. It didn't help that she and Draco were the youngest couple by a decade, not counting children attending with their parents, and her dress stood out among the muted Slytherin colours the crowd favored. Red and Gold were not in fashion. Draco had warned her, but she'd taken it as a challenge. Hermione could hardly complain about the attention. She felt giddy at having the power to provoke Wizarding's self-described nobility with her fashion choices. That was a power Hermione Granger never expected. She giggled slightly and added "I mean, I read the synopsis and it doesn't seem like a date play."

"Well," said Draco, who sounded like he'd suppressed a cough then cleared his throat, "I like this play and haven't seen it in several years. And its nothing like a movie theater, where you have ten screens to choose from. This is the play they are showing."

Draco - who had spent the entire last fifteen minutes ignoring every stare and cough from those around him - had been subtly inspecting the audience. Hermione would have felt annoyed but Draco had been a perfect gentleman, paying attention to her throughout the evening. And, after all, people watching was Draco's unique skill. Harry rarely noticed the number of people around, much less their characteristics. Harry only focused on people he considered important. _Draco probably did that, too. He just hid it much better._ And it was an interesting crowd, she admitted. Draco was still talking.

"And I enjoyed Muggle movie night. Harry said part of the reason was that they only showed the really popular movies, that there were lots of terrible ones, so I thought you might enjoy this. It sells out fairly consistently. So, even though I know it's not," he paused, looking for a phrase, "your favorite _genre_ , I figured you might like the quality. If not the content."

Hermione gasped as she caught a glimpse of a familiar face peeking over a railing from the box seat above them and off to the right. Gilderoy Lockhart glanced down at the audience, five o'clock shadow on his cheeks making him appear even more rakish and dangerous than normal. Hermione smiled at him and started to wave, then his face disappeared behind the railing.

"Draco! Professor Lockhart is here. He's in a box seat, up there." She pointed just in time to see Professor Lockhart's face re-appear, but now he was saying something and pointing at Hermione, who looked over at the witch next sitting next to Gilderoy, smooth blond hair pouring out from underneath her stern hat surrounding an aging but still beautiful face, formal noble robes strikingly similar to Draco's. Hermione gasped and turned to Draco, who seemed to be doing his best to try to pull himself into his seat and hide in the growing darkness as the lights started to lower.

Hermione's mind froze for a second. Then she leaned over to Draco. "We're here to spy on _her_ date?" she said as the curtain started rising.

"I _did_ say there'd be mild chaperoning duties," Draco mumbled defensively before the crowd started shush-ing them.


	30. The Date, Part 2

Hermione spent the entire first scene mentally reviewing the exact phrasing of Draco's letter, which she'd read well more than six times even before showing it to parents. Mum had squealed with delight at the invitation, while Dad just scowled. _What did she know?_ Draco had originally dressed formally, but not flashy. He'd changed after seeing her dress. He'd brought them in at the last minute, to a place where he'd know - of course he'd know - that Xare would be watched and kept away. Draco had commented about traveling incognito.

He'd planned to spy on his mother all along. _Was this even a date_?

(Out in the lobby, the manager stared at the Phoenix. Turning to the ushers, he said "Is it getting brighter? You see it, right?")

By the second scene Hermione had calmed down. Draco clearly liked her, but maybe he was more nervous than he looked – _Draco almost never looked nervous_ – and he'd clearly be hearing all about this when he got home from Narcissa. She glanced over and saw that Draco was entranced by the play. It clearly had an affect on him, he hadn't been lying about wanting to see it.

And he hadn't really lied to her. He hadn't come out and said all of his motivations, but that didn't indicate what his primary motivation was. This could be a date, in Draco's mind, but also a date with some spying. That made it exotic. _Maybe too exotic for a first date_ said the teenage-girl Hermione. _Or maybe he couldn't admit it was a date to himself, and needed an excuse,_ said her inner librarian. The librarian reminded her of all the books that stated boys matured slower.

By the third scene, which revealed Lights's father as the Auror leading the investigation into the murders committed by his own son, Hermione had built up a convincing internal story where Draco had invited her as a romantic gesture, but had been too worried about rejection to couch it as a date. He hadn't dared hope that Hermione would accept it, hadn't felt worthy of Hermione. A year ago she never would have thought that, but she heard the whispers.

When the curtain fell for intermission Hermione realized she was being silly. Once they were in the lobby, age appropriate drinks in hand, she just asked Draco "Is this a date, exactly?"

"Yes! Of course," he said, a little too forcefully, and Hermione realized Draco might not have been entranced by the play, but had probably spent a good portion of his time worried about his situation and having an internal argument about her. _After all, he already knew the plot on stage_. She liked that thought.

"It's just," he said, slowly, glancing around to make sure that nobody seemed too near, "a bit of a working date. No, that didn't come out right. I wasn't sure how much of a date you considered it, or if it was just … hanging out. I've spent time with Muggle teenagers, you know. Things are done differently. I thought you'd be treating it like they did. Casually."

"And once you saw how I was dressed," she said and Draco nodded, taking a sip of his drink. Narcissa came out into the Lobby and Draco started to subtly move them into a crowd, not realizing that Xare's eyes glanced in Hermione's direction ever few seconds, providing anyone the ability to track them even if they were fully hidden. Still, Hermione went with him. "I don't see why you'd worry about your mother's dating life. I mean, I can see why it would upset you..."

"I didn't expect her to be with _Lockhart_!" Draco said, somewhat crestfallen.

"Does that make it better, who she's with? It doesn't matter, it's her business, not yours," but Hermione's voice didn't sound scolding. Draco's offense – a boy judging who a girl dated – offended her. In theory. Since it was his mother ... well, if one of her parent's died Hermione knew she'd be overly protective of the other. She felt Draco deserved a pass. And she was intensely curious. "Who did you expect?"

Draco glanced around again and whispered "Professor Slughorn" and at that moment Hermione forgave Draco's overly protective interest in his mother's dating life. She took Draco's hand firmly in hers, walked them out of the crowd to go and say her sweet and pleasant hello to Narcissa Malfoy and Gilderoy Lockhart.

Draco was, of course, too polite to refuse. Even if he blanched slightly.

Hermione beamed her most intense smile, "Good evening, Professor. Madam Malfoy."

"Mother. Professor." Draco said formally.

Gilderoy Lockhart may have spent the last few years in a jungle, but he'd spent prior decades living on his looks and his charm and he smiled radiantly, as though running into Draco and Hermione had been all he had hoped for this evening. "Generals," he said, "I must admit I'm surprised to see the two of you here, and looking wonderful."

Narcissa smiled sweetly, "Yes, everyone looks lovely, but I will not participate in this charade." Her smiled faded into a scowl. "But that is a lovely orchid, Hermione. Did Draco pick it out for you? Of course he did, where would you get that. And did he tell you what it symbolizes?"

Hermione knew that subcultures - especially wealthy aristocratic ones - assigned symbolic meanings for colours, flowers, flags, practically anything. Usually it was a game played by the upper class. Judging from Professor's Lockhart reaction, he didn't know what it meant either. But Draco clearly did.

"It doesn't symbolize anything Hermione," Draco said quickly, "it's just all I could find on short notice."

Narcissa leaned down to Hermione and looked into her eyes. Hermione held her breath and raised _Occlumency_ barriers. She might not be able to keep Narcissa Malfoy out, but she'd _know_. Narcissa just smiled a crocodile's smile and said "I'm not surprised you don't know, even though it's an obvious symbol. Orchids are _difficult to breed_."

Narcissa stalked away. A few seconds later Professor Lockhart shrugged helplessly and started to turn away. Before he took even a single step Hermione started giggling. By the time he'd caught up to Narcissa, Hermione was laughing loudly.

Hermione, once she controlled herself, offered Draco her arm. "Your mom really doesn't understand me, does she? I didn't grow up in a Jane Austen book."

* * *

The ice cream shop, unlike the theatre, had customers of all ages. Teenagers, some nicely dressed and others in the latest shabby fashions, chomped on cones and slurped milkshakes alongside families with small children and older couples. Xare sat on the windowsill, looking in sadly – a young girl cried and screamed after Xare melted her banana split's ice cream and Hermione had scurried back outside before returning.

"Well, I knew the murderer was the protagonist – Muggle literature has anti-heroes, too - although I never understood the appeal," said Hermione, sipping her milkshake, "I just didn't expect the crowd to be cheering him."

"It's just a play, Hermione, it's not like they were..."

"I'm teasing you," said Hermione. "I don't judge people based on escapism. It didn't surprise me that they cheered Lawliet, but that the cheered _at all_ during the play. Muggles might cheer during movies but in a play with actors I hadn't expected it. Although I suppose if you consider it a melodrama and give the victim a mustache to twirl...and in any case, it was an interesting play."

"Yes, similar to a Sherlock Holmes story" Draco said, taking a bite of his chocolate sundae.

"Yes, wait, you've read that?"

Draco paused and held up his hand, silent for a moment, then tapped his forehead. "Brain freeze. A few. It has charm, and I'm told they turned it into plays and movies. In some ways it reminds me of Harry."

"The lack of manners," said Hermione.

"The maniacal focus," Draco added.

"The fact that his companion is ever so much nicer," said Hermione, with a smile.

"Wait, which one of us is Watson in your imagination?" he asked.

"That depends on how we define Watson. If he's a competent soldier cleaning up after Holmes's social failings, that would be me. If he's comedic relief and serving as an audience surrogate, then I'm afraid the role falls to you."

Draco said "It would be the height of folly and rudeness for me to disagree. You are clearly the noble Watson to Harry's Holmes." He raised his spoon in salute, then continued eating. "In all seriousness, the trait that gets me is Holmes ability to quickly winnow down possibilities. If I see a man with ink on his robe, a shabby hat, and a brand new pocketwatch, I merely think he's written a letter and bought a watch more recently than a hat. But Holmes manages to come up with some much more esoteric theory."

"He's just a fictional character, like Lawliet, or Auror L."

"Yes, but you've seen Harry do it. I've seen it. I make some minor statement and then he's deduced the most amazing things." Draco looked down sadly at his empty bowl, then set down his spoon. "The methods he taught us, they can correct mistakes and guide us, but I don't know if he can teach us to make these stunning insights. That may just be his innate genius."

"Harry lent me a book about one of his scientific heroes that said something like, 'There are two types of genius. The first type you look at and say, if only I study harder, practice harder, and spend the long years required for mastery, then I could do that. And the second type, you don't even know where to begin.' Harry does seem like the second type."

"Yes, I mean, I figured out how he did a lot of things from last year. And those things impressed me quite a bit, Neville's Rememberal."

Hermione put down her shake. "You _know_ how Harry did that?" She had to hear this.

"The last piece of the puzzle was when you saved me from bullies. I know you weren't there when you caught me, and I realized … _invisibility cloak_. I'd already figured out his spinster wicket was a time turner. With the two of those you can do a lot. You aren't wearing yours tonight, I noticed. But it's almost midnight … I can't imagine your parents let you stay out this late."

Hermione blushed. "I put it in my purse. It didn't go well with the dress. And coming back from the dead makes your parents recalibrate curfew hours. But yes, I'm going to be home before ten," she added, feeling a small frisson of delight in keeping her father in the dark.

"That's really good, Draco, I never figured it out."

"Well," he said, "you didn't grow up around magic. Anyway, those tricks are impressive, but not because of what he did. Because I wonder how he managed to get those devices so quickly. But I've seen him, in conversations with Father, quickly infer subtle little details like Holmes would do and smoke out plans. I know he's improvising and not cheating. Or if he is cheating, it's still impressive. Harry's …. flying on a broom while juggling, dodging bludgers, blindfolded. And making it look easy. I don't see how the techniques are going to get us to that level."

"I don't think they will," added Hermione, finishing her milkshake with a small slurp.

"No, but wouldn't it be nice?"


	31. The Date, Part 3

"Will you be all right?" Hermione asked, as they stood at his open door. Draco's face shone in the moonlight. Light from Xare, flashes of orange, danced across his face and especially his hair. "I mean, with your mother?"

"We're family," Draco said. "I'll worry about it later." The words hung in the humid air and Hermione saw him hesitate, just for a second, before bowing and disappearing into Malfoy Manor.

* * *

Hermione heard her parents' discussion as she glided down the stairs for breakfast.

"He's a lovely young man," Mum said. "And It's not like she's going to stay our little girl forever, Leo."

Hermione smelled the slightly stale coffee. She couldn't _not_ smell it, just like she couldn't _not_ hear her parents, even though they were two rooms away. At Hogwarts there were so many noises that even though she heard them all, none of them really registered. At home the quiet amplified everything.

"What kind of boy sends a bouquet like this, after a first date?" Dad grumbled, then slurped some coffee. Hermione could smell the flowers before she walked into the kitchen, but when she walked in she stopped. The vase stood in the middle of the table, and had a red carnation entwined with a yellow rose sporting thorns that looked like they'd been sharpened on a whetstone. A pink amaryllis stood above them, and they were surrounded by a collection of lavender peonies. Two lillies, one hanging languidly to each side, guarded the ensemble.

She walked over, entranced, as Mum said "Good morning" and inhaled the complex aromas that hung over the room.

The card simply said **_To: H, From: D._**

Hermione broke from her reverie to kiss her parents.

"So, what are your plans for today?" Leo asked, as Hermione poured herself a glass of orange juice.

"There's a book I absolutely _have_ to read," she answered.


	32. Portkeys, Trains and Carriages, Part 1

_"Only those who can dream of great Crimes ever suspect anything more than petty theft." - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

When Draco crossed the threshold of Platform Nine and Three Quarters his charcoal suit smoothly flowed into a robe.

Nobody witnessed the change. Draco wasn't showing off but he'd studied feverishly and practiced all during the holidays and it amused Draco. He knew it was a childish thrill, being sharply dressed in the correct fashion on both sides of the barrier. That realization didn't diminish his joy one bit, he'd dropped his Transfiguration at the exact right time.

It hadn't been a free Transfiguration; those took too long to master and he couldn't get nearly the amount of details down. His freely transfigured suits looked like they'd been tailored by a bunch of drunken forest creatures. Grindelwald had tutted dismissively when Draco told him that they started with free Transfiguration at Hogwarts. They started first years with fixed Transfigurations at Durmstrang.

Grindelwald and Dumbledore had argued pedagogy over the years.

"Of course Free Transfiguration is better," Grindelwald had said, "but what good does that do you right now? And roughly half the students will never be good at it. Bah. Yes, each fixed transfiguration requires it's own word and wand motions, but these can be derived. _Did they not tell you that_ at school? Such strange teachings methods, that do not help the less talented get along yet also do not let the most talented shine. Come, pick some items, we will research it."

It had taken several days, but Draco had learned to Transfigure his robes into his suit. _It doesn't count as bragging if nobody else hears_ , and Draco smiled when he stepped onto the platform, robes flowing smoothly around him. He kept up a brisk pace while his trunk padded behind him, moving through the crowd easily, saying hello, waving. Neville was already on the platform, fumbling through his trunk looking for Trevor. Draco didn't see Augusta Longbottom around. She'd probably already left. Vincent and Gregory were in an animated discussion, and Draco smiled even further when he saw they wore the matching robes he'd given them. His smile froze when Padma Patil glared at him, why would she be mad?

 _Oh, she likes me._ Draco realized that she'd been around Slytherin, but had often hung around him instead of making new friends. _She even joined the group rescuing you from the bullies,_ Draco remembered. At the time he'd just marked it down as Padma hanging out with Harry Potter and trying to make friends with the powerful students her age. In hindsight it was easy to see, and remember the other times he'd seen her and just assumed she was being friendly.

 _Your training never taught me anything about this,_ _Father._ Draco thought.

 _Six Month younger you didn't notice this,_ Father replied, _so exactly how would you explain this to ten year old Draco?_

Draco knew many of the complex love triangles. He probably knew more about them than any Wizard his age (although obviously less than any Witch his age). But he'd never thought the knowledge would apply to him. Draco smiled to Padma and waved as though nothing was wrong. _I can't stop being oblivious now_ and walked over to the newsstand to see what fresh lies the _Quibbler_ spewed.

 _GIRL-WHO-REVIVED DUELS NARCISSA MALFOY_

 _SACKS MALFOY MANOR,_

 _DRACO MALFOY PREGNANT?_

"It's like they aren't even trying anymore," Draco said, as he slapped down four knuts and grabbed a copy. "I guess pregnancy news sells in the red tops."

"It does seem to at that," the vendor agreed.

"So, Hermione Granger came to my house, attacked my mother and then burned Malfoy Manor to the ground."

"Pity that," said that vendor. "It had lovely Feng Shui."

Draco flipped a page, "Then kidnapped me to be her love slave."

"You could do a lot worse, as abductors go," said the vendor. Seeing Draco's look, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Usually it's the ugly ones that stoop to that."

"At least our child is going to be the chosen one who saves the world. Seriously, who reads this stuff?"

"I've no idea."

Draco shoved the _Quibbler_ into his mokeskin pouch. He'd show it Hermione later. _Maybe she'd actually burn them down_. It was a pleasant thought, though of course she'd never do it.

 _If you actually date Padma Patil, she'd burn the Quibbler down for you_ , Father said. Draco ignored him.

Draco walked back to the train, stopping to interject himself into a crowd of older Slytherins.

"Jugson, Derrick, Lestrange," he said, nodding slightly. "I trust your holidays went well?"

"Not as good as yours, Malfoy," said Peregrine Derrick, smiling and laughing. Draco noticed that the others didn't join in.

"Silly rumours," Draco said, "It's my burden that witches find me attractive. Tell me, Derrick, how do you manage to keep them away so easily?" Now Ethan Jugson and Lesath Lestrange started laughing and Peregrine Derrick didn't storm off, but just smiled wanly. With MacNair expelled and the Hestia Carrow still recovering the balance of power had shifted. _I need to deal with the stragglers, but maybe they'll just give up.…._ Draco turned to Ethan. "How is your brother doing? Settling in after the move?"

"Yeah. He's excited, wrote several letters about it," said Ethan then, in response to the Peregrine's look, "Robert moved out to the Caymans. Took a portkey last week. Said he wanted to strike out and make his fortune and that he was tired of school."

"Aren't we all?" said Derrick.

Lestrange spoke up. "It's just the first day back. You can't be tired of it until ... February." Draco nodded, _That's new._ He hadn't heard Lestrange speak up in a group in a long time. Usually he just sulked in his room or wandered the halls, lurking. Nobody was really sure what Lesath did, apart from ducking bullies. Maybe he'd also had a better time of it, after Hermione and Harry's anti-bullying campaigns. It took a while to recover from trauma. Draco perked up at the thought. _If Lesath can recover from years of torment in under a year, I should be fine any day now._ Draco saw Hermione boarding the train and excused himself. Derrick made a little whip cracking noise and everyone laughed, including Draco.

After stowing his trunk and climbing on board, Draco found Hermione in a car with Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown and Hannah Abbot. Besides them was a copy of Septavia Magnusson's _Flowers, Arrangements and Their Meanings_ lying face down on the seat. Obviously Hermione hadn't set it down, she wouldn't have left a book open like that, might damage the spine. Chocolate frog wrappers littered the floor _._ The witches' animated discussion stopped the instant Draco appeared. Draco blushed, then regained the use of his mouth.

"Hermione, I don't suppose you'd sack _The Quibbler,_ " Draco hoped his tone was light and playful. _I must be insane, trying to talk to her when she's surrounded by her friends._ Hermione shook her head and started to say something, but the other spoke up first.

"That's more of a third date sort of thing," Lavender Brown said.

"Good girls wait," agreed Hannah, nodding. There was giggling.

"Oh, I assure you Hermione was a perfect Lady and kept her hands to herself, but it never hurts to ask." Draco said to the assorted sniggers as Hermione blushed and stuttered. _Insane or not, I can play that game_. "Are you coming to Professor Slughorn's car?" Draco didn't bother to address the others, and tried to ignore their comments.

"No...I hadn't planned to. In any case I thought that wasn't until lunch?"

"My invite said eleven," Draco said. The Hogwarts Express let out a piercing whistle – last call – and Draco looked at his watch.

"You'd better get going, then," said Parvati.

"Yes, I suppose I should." Draco picked up the book and examined the page, then started reading out load. "Amaryllis – am I saying that right? – have a wide range of meanings with shades of subtleties. That is a nice turn of phrase, isn't it?" Draco thumbed through several more pages. "Fascinating book. You know, I really should read it some day." He leaned over to Hermione to hand the book back to her, winking when he hoped that the others couldn't see him. Then stood up, and made a small bow to the entire carriage.

"Ladies," he said, as he took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

 _That ought to keep them talking._ Perhaps he should have made it seem like he was trying to hide the wink, but let them see. _It probably didn't matter, and it's not like I can predict which would be better._ Draco realized he'd have to seriously examine how his date with Hermione affected his reputation. And make sure that Hermione didn't misinterpret his joking. It certainly made things interesting. A number of students that Draco barely knew where talking about him, or at least whispering and pointing, as he made his way to the Professor's car. _Then again, everyone always thinks that everything is about them. I'm probably just noticing the people who appear interested._

He passed Vincent and Gregory, sitting with Neville. Gregory waved him in, but Draco just flashed the invitation he'd been examining, shrugged, and kept walking. It definitely said 'Eleven am.' _What would Professor Slughorn want to talk about in private?_ It could be the fallout from the expulsions, and the general course of House Slytherin. In his gut, Draco didn't believe that for a second. He slowed his pace, taking more time to say hello to people. No need to be early.

* * *

"Come in!" said Professor Slughorn to the knock. The Hogwart's Express lurched forward right as the door opened and Draco Malfoy stumbled slightly upon entering. There was a wide table between them and Draco's eyes scanned the settings, taking in the scene of (empty) chairs and eight elegant place settings. The glasses wobbled slightly as the train accelerated in small bursts, chugging forward. The table wasn't circular - no false equality here – and Horace sat at one end, able to view the entire table as well as the entrance to his private carriage.

"Draco, my boy! Take a seat, please. Would you like some tea?" Professor Slughorn didn't gesture towards any one particular seat, his hands were holding up a small pot of tea and he started to pour a second cup. He wanted to see where Draco chose to sit.

"Please. I wouldn't want you to have to reach across the table," Draco said, sitting down at the opposite end, He took out his wand and cast _Wingardium Leviosa_ and gently drifted his tea to him and took a sip. "Fortunately, now that we're officially back at school, I don't have to inconvenience you."

Horace chuckled. "Oh, very good. But don't you want to sit at my right hand? You should want to impress your Professor and Head of House with your close rapport and set yourself up as my proxy over your fellow students."

"There will be students from all houses attending this, as I recall. And it is not clear to me that I want to be associated closely with my house. The opposite end of the table puts me in a similar position of authority, but as a counterbalance to yourself. Students naturally feel a pull to ally against Professors. And by sitting with my back to the door, I show implicit trust that I am safe from attack."

"Because of my presence? Or because of past events, I wonder? Well, either one works. And what of the non-Slytherins? What will they think?"

"They won't consciously notice the seating position in any case." Draco put down his tea, liquid still sloshing around. Professor Slughorn chuckled approvingly.

"Very good. _Very good_. I shouldn't test your training, but you mustn't blame an old man's curiosity. In any case, I don't even think most Slytherin pay much attention to these signals anymore. It's out of fashion. Did you not care for the tea? I have a wide variety to choose from. Darjeeling, perhaps?"

Draco's cup silently drifted back over to Professor Slughorn, who produced another pot of tea and poured into Draco's now-empty cup. Professor Slughorn refilled his own cup and took a nosy gulp before levitating Draco's tea back to him. He could see out of the corner of his eye that the significance wasn't lost on the boy. Draco quickly picked up his cup and took a sip.

"I honestly don't have much appreciation for the various types of tea. They taste mostly identical. If you hadn't said it was Darjeeling, I wouldn't have known." Draco set the cup back down.

Horace got up and went over to the trunk resting besides his chair, then opened it up and leaned dangerously far in, disappearing at the waist. "Next time I will stock some butterbeer, then? I may have something else ..." his voice disappeared for a few seconds, and the sound of rattling glass could be heard. "Hm. Perhaps I shouldn't offer underage students a wine - no matter how exquisite - while I am their official guardian and chaperone? What _would_ the Headmistress say?"

Professor Slughorn stood up from his trunk and walked over to Draco, then offered him a small red and white can of Coke. "Or perhaps this is more to your taste?" Professor Slughorn gestured and Draco's cup turned into a tall glass, and he popped the can open and poured.

"Thank you, Professor. My unsubtle taste buds thank you as well. No point in asking how you knew about this," Draco said, picking up his glass and taking a drink of the still-fizzing soda.

Professor Slughorn sat down to Draco's left and he said "Tell me, my boy. What did you do this break? And where the hell is Gellart Grindelwald?" right as he met Draco's eyes.


	33. Portkeys, Trains and Carriages, Part 2

_"It is a common mistake to glorify those you have tricked, to imagine that you have toppled their cleverness by your own subtlety. Arrogance leads men to imagine their adversaries great, in retrospect." - Lucius Malfoy  
_

* * *

"And then what happened?" asked Professor Lockhart. Their carriage hit a bump right as he spoke, and he jostled up against Horace Slughorn's enormous belly. The short trip from the train to their quarters should only take a few more minutes.

"Then the little bastard spewed his infernal drink right into my eyes and coughed for several minutes. 'Swallowed the wrong way,' he said. And apologized profusely, but of course he'd just been trying to keep me from peeking into his mind. The funny thing is, I don't think the boy's had _Occlumenency_ training, although with a Malfoy who knows?"

Gilderoy smiled broadly at that. "So, you think he just guessed or _suspected_ you might invade his mind? Seems paranoid. At least young Draco has learned my lessons about ambushes, but still... all signs point to him being somewhat estranged from Narcissa."

"Estranged or not, she may still have taught him. Assuming it isn't a ruse. Anyway, of course I accepted his apology and went back and cleaned myself up. And while I was doing that he calmly explained that he'd hired Grindelwald as a tutor for history, Transfiguration, and what not, and that they'd gone into business together. He wouldn't go into details, so I suspect it's something not-quite-legitimate, but probably not terrible either. He also mentioned seeing your date with Narcissa..."

"And did you? Peek into his mind?" Gilderoy asked.

"No need to be so touchy and try to change the subject, my dear fellow. I have no idea how young Malfoy got the impression that I was courting his mother – not that it wouldn't be pleasant – but I have a reasonable understanding of how I am viewed by Witches. I don't begrudge you the experience."

Professor Lockhart merely crossed his arms across his chest and cocked his head.

"Erm. Well, yes, of course I peeked into his mind. The Headmistress asked and I am but her humble servant. But I was only looking for anything untoward, not a full scale rummaging around. In any case, his story about Grindelwald is true. What little I saw before getting a face full of that drink – you'd be surprised how s _ticky_ it is, who drinks sticky liquids? - confirmed it. The business is inconsequential. No, that's not the worrisome part."

Gilderoy started tapping his foot softly.

"No, the part that worries me is the gaps in young Malfoy's memory."

"Gaps?" said Lockhart, alarmed "How many? When?"

"You should know that's not how it works, Gilderoy. At least twice over the holidays and who knows how many prior to that. Sloppy work, too. Imprecise. Of course Draco just chalked it up to tiredness, but he's worried about them at some level."

The carriage pulled up to a stop, they were right outside the front gate of Hogwarts. They could see the students just starting to walk on campus, Hagrid and the non-Heads of House leading them along.

"And are you going to tell the Headmistress?" asked Professor Lockhart.

Horace Slughorn pulled out a handkerchief and started rubbing his forehead. "Well, I have to. Part of the job."

Professor Slughorn started to ease his way out of the carriage, but the Offense Professor put his hand his arm. "I have a … _confession_ … that may affect your decision. Hear me out."

* * *

Minerva McGonagall stared at Professor Slughorn. "Are you not feeling well, Horace?"

"Perhaps something I ate disagreed with me." Professor Slughorn could see the flicker of disapproval before the Headmistress controlled her emotions. No, she'd never make a good _Occlumens_. In fact Professor Slughorn had eaten lightly at dinner, but he'd snacked constantly on the train trip up while hosting his little get-together. He stared back across the Headmistress's desk. She looked less fierce than last year, as if the toll of the job had washed over her and she'd started to relax into it. The office looked mostly as it had during his earlier tenure as Potions Professor, except the one giant frame behind the desk, labeled "Albus Dumbledore." Other portraits had been shifted to make space for the latest addition to the wall, but unlike the rest of the portraits, there was nothing to see.

Just a blank canvas. The sight unnerved him.

"Well then, about Draco Malfoy. Anything of note? Should we be worried about him? He's very ambitious, more so than most of your House..."

"Minerva, all of my students - make that _all students_ \- are ambitious. Everyone dreams of being the next Merlin or Idlewind or Flamel or whoever kids emulate these days. What sets Draco apart from the rest of them aren't his dreams but the dedication and training to follow through. I never thought I'd say this, but he'd make an excellent Hufflepuff. Don't fear Draco's desires, admire his execution and tenacity. That boy has steel in his spine, probably because of his father's murder. But, since you asked. He's not getting into anything _nefarious_ with Grindelwald. It's a poorly thought out business. I personally think that he's going to take a bath on this investment but Draco isn't going in with any illusions. He thinks making money will be nip and tuck, but even if he lost everything he's put into it – a considerable sum – he's gotten private tutoring with an excellent Wizard and turned the entire Jugson clan into an ally."

"That's rather ... involved for a twelve year old."

"He also views it as an investment to help him understand Muggle business practices. I don't really understand, perhaps Professor Asimov would have better insights. Remember, Madame, _A great plot threatens multiple victories_ It sounds better in the original Latin, but certainly the most basic tenet of Salazar's cunning was written over Malfoy's first bassinet. As far as Draco is concerned, _he's already profited_. He might win several more times over."

The Headmistress considered this, but she seemed satisfied. "I see what you mean about ambition versus execution. And what about his date with Miss Granger?"

"Now now, Minerva, you _said_ you were investigating Dark Secrets and didn't want to know about minor peccadilloes, didn't you? I didn't delve into his memories like a voracious grubworm..."

Minerva sighed. "No, of course not. I just don't want to see that girl get hurt."

Professor Slughorn got up. "Of course not, she's charming. And while I happen to know that he had a few ulterior motives for the date - No, I didn't see that in his mind, but I do keep myself informed - but it was just a date. If the lad isn't smitten yet, he's well on his way."

"Yes, well. Do keep me informed about Draco. And the rest of your House. I don't want to expel another single student, is that clear?"

Professor Slughorn agreed, said his goodbye and showed himself out. He started the long walk back to his quarters, _Occlumency_ barriers up even though alone. Perhaps he should have told Minerva about the gaps in Draco's memory. He would have, except that Horace Slughorn had been doing digging of his own. He'd wondered where the two most famous second years, students who should have rightfully been guided and mentored by himself, spent their days. It certainly wasn't in classes. He'd been shocked at the amount of power wielded by those two, but months of quiet talk and letters had confirmed it.

Potter practically ran Hogwarts and Peverell, albeit from behind the scenes, and had major influence in the government. Horace Slughorn knew any secret he told the Headmistress would be heard by Harry Potter.

And that wouldn't do, because of the _other_ worrisome thing he'd glimpsed in Draco Malfoy's mind. Despite Lucius Malfoy's death, _Legilmency_ against a Malfoy remained an enormous risk but Draco's actions looked alarming enough to risk. So he'd agreed to the Headmistresses request and asked point blank what Draco did during his break right as he'd probed Draco's mind.

Draco had instantly thought of his actions with Grindelwald, but they weren't his primary reaction. No, the clearest image was Draco locked inside his own vault, writing a letter to Harry Potter. Professor Slughorn could see Draco scratching the words onto the parchment.

 _And if you are Voldemort – or should I say, Tom Riddle - ..._

The thought had stunned Horace Slughorn more than the barrage of soda hitting his face a second later.

 _How had Draco Malfoy worked out that Tom Riddle was Voldemort_? The name Tom Riddle meant nothing to someone Draco's age. There were probably only a handful of people who'd made the connection, not counting those who understood only a few seconds before death. He himself had taken years to piece it together, then decades to finally admit it to himself.

And a twelve year old boy had solved it ... in a year or two at most.

It made Draco's other suspicion _much_ more plausible.

Horace Slughorn never planned to feed any information about Draco Malfoy back to Harry Potter. At least, not until he finished his own investigations. He'd only shared his secret to Professor Lockhart as insurance. When operating against Voldemort (or any other Dark Wizard) it didn't do to keep _too_ many secrets. That made you much more valuable dead than alive, or got yourself tortured for information. No, best to give a dedicated and persistent opponent an easier way to discover your secrets. Also, if his lie to the Headmistress did get revealed, he'd be able to spin it innocently if he'd shared it with someone else.

Maybe not enough to save his job, but enough to keep his reputation. He consulted with another Professor, at least.

Surprisingly, Gilderoy's confession provided a compelling excuse to lie to the Headmistress in good faith. It had been such a lucky stroke, Horace wondered that he hadn't accidentally spilled _Felix Felicis_ into his tea. Now even if the worst happened and the Headmistress caught him in a lie, Horace Slughorn would have a reason that even she'd balk at condemning. And an ally in Professor Lockhart.

That young fool desperately wanted to hunt a Dark Wizard.


	34. Wargames, Part 1

_"It is invaluable to have a friend who is always wrong. Carefully guard that friend, especially from the truth." - Lucius Malfoy  
_

* * *

"You _wanted_ practical exercises," Harry said to the rest of the Bayesian Conspiracy, who stood in the center of the modified Muggle Studies lecture hall. They'd quickly settled back in after the first day of classes. Chairs from the center of the room had been moved aside. Giant white boards covered the front and side walls. The front wall showed a map of an island, some waters, and surrounding land. Brooms of various colours were flying slowly across the map as if drawn and erased by an elegant calligrapher. Small ships bobbed slightly in the center of the map, wavy lines indicating water. Extensive listings slowly scrolled up along the side walls, like an accountant's ledger. Each row listed a number, besides a picture of a broom and then a row of relevant information – how long that broom had been seen, it's location, heading, and the like.

Above the main map was a digital clock, large red numbers assaulting Draco's eyes: 20:01:45, 46, 47...

"Welcome to the _Bludger,_ a _Skysweeper_ class." said Professor Asimov. "A Muggle warship specializing in anti-aircraft operations. This room simulates the bridge – the heart of operations – although allowances have been made to translate the information to something you'd recognize."

Hermione walked up to the front wall. "I've seen this map before. On TV." Harry went over and talked to her in quiet words, Draco couldn't hear them, but saw Hermione shake her head. Professor Asimov was speaking.

"These walls would be computer generated readouts of all aircraft, er, broom traffic in the local area. The big ship in the center of the map is your ship. Compared to brooms, it's quite slow, and barely moves. The small red circle is your area of vulnerability. Any enemy broom that gets within that circle could attack your ship."

"What about the larger circles," asked Blaise.

"The medium circle shows the area you can be reasonably confident you are seeing the truth. Beyond that circle your radar – Muggle scrying technology – is less reliable. You may be missing some brooms. The outer circle is the maximum range. You can't see any broom past that unless they are actively telling you where they are. Oh, your radar is also less efficient against brooms that are flying over land, as they may be able to hide."

Harry Potter had finished his discussion with Hermione and continued the lesson.

"Brooms are color coded. Is anyone here color blind? OK, good. Green brooms are friendly. Red brooms are enemy. Grey brooms are unarmed. All brooms appear the same size on this screen, but Grey Brooms are sky buses carrying people and not weapons. Yellow brooms are unknown. They could be anything. A broom with a color and a question mark is _presumed_ to be that color, but not verified."

Neville nodded. "What are those symbols on the land?"

"These," said Harry, pointing to a few crossed lines, "are airports. Airplanes take off and land there. Unlike brooms, which can be used anywhere, planes need specialized facilities. Those you can trust, they take years to build, you know exactly where they are, even if they aren't inside your radar range. These little ship icons represent ships, of course. Same color scheme. Each green ship has it's own red circle."

There were a few desks located along the front of the room, and Harry waved to them.

"Each station has a smaller display, like Professor Quirrell used in his lectures. You can point your wand at the map and bring up information. Be sure you are pointing at the right broom, the simulation doesn't read minds. Or you can use the number and enter it into the keypad. If you look carefully, the map numbers everything so you can talk about it and be sure you are talking about the same broom. Friendly ships and brooms have names as well."

"This is complicated," said Gregory.

Harry nodded. "Battles are. Air battles in particular, since things move so fast. But that's just the technical side. The real issue, and I know that Professor Lockhart has started to cover this, is that you have objectives in any battle. Here your primary objective is to keep your ship safe. And any other green ships that may be around. If a red broom gets too close it may attack. Technically, this isn't your war, there are actually a few different red sides, but for us we'll just consider them one enemy. Your ship is also vulnerable to other ships, all of it's weapons are anti-broom, but others ships fight red ships. So your main issue to figure out the color of each broom. A few of the stations are specialized."

Harry pointed to the desk just off center.

"The main Communications lets you talk to other green forces. You can't talk to green brooms directly, but the other ships will relay any requests. We, uh, haven't fully automated this simulation so you'll just talk to me and I'll adjust the simulation."

Professor Asimov stood next to a large desk off to the side. Apart from a monitor it also had a big red button, underneath glass "The weapon station controls attacks against a broom. There's only one weapon station. Because of the political situation, you shouldn't fire on a broom unless necessary. Even targeting a broom without firing is a hostile act, so try not to do it. The other stations let you inspect the main board in more detail, and have a variety of functions."

"How do we steer the ship," asked Neville.

Harry shook his head. "You don't. Use communications to talk to the people who steer the ship. They handle the naval aspect. You patrol the skies."

* * *

The first five minutes went smoothly. They'd elected Daphne general. She didn't sit at any station, just acted as the central decision maker. A year and a half of battles made it obvious to everyone that there would be too much cross talk without someone clearly in charge who didn't have to watch for anything in particular.

20:16:05.

At first, the simulation showed only green brooms. Then a Grey flew towards the ship, appearing at the northern airfield.

Draco pointed his wand at it, and the details came up on his monitor. _Commercial flight, on expected path and scheduled 20:15 takeoff, routine, confirmed._ Draco shifted his attention back to the map. He was responsible for the area to the north of the ship while Neville watched the south. Two red brooms, question marks tilted besides them, appeared next to the north west airbase and were heading towards the ship.

"Two maybe reds heading towards us!" Draco said, but everyone had seen them.

"How do we know they may be reds?" Daphne asked. "I mean, technically. I can see the map marks them that way."

Professor Asimov answered. "The map makes some assumptions. Those came from an enemy airport too small for commercial airliners, so they are presumed to be red military brooms. The computer marks them with question marks, to let you know it is guessing."

The brooms were closing in fast. Blaise - sitting in the communications station - started talking quietly to Harry, getting information or making requests. Draco couldn't make it out. Three green brooms changed direction to intercept the red brooms and a minute later, the question marks disappeared. It was hard to see on the main map, but Draco's monitor showed a closeup. He could see the individual pencil strokes of each brooms tail.

"Definitely enemies!" Draco shouted.

"Hermione, shield against them," Daphne ordered.

Hermione raised the shields. The two brooms practically on top of each other, she could defend against both. Draco saw them start to break apart, one heading more easterly and the other more to the south. Draco started to say something, but Hermione spoke up.

"They are splitting up, I can't shield both of them for much longer."

Draco looked at the map legend and pointed his wand to "Timer and made a few selections." His screen pulled up a countdown timer. "Broom 1147 will cross the red circle in 45 seconds. Broom 1583 hits in 60."

Daphne considered for a second, or maybe two. "Hermione, shield 1583. Gregory, target 1147."

"Shielding 1583," said Hermione.

"Targeting 1147," Gregory said as she finished.

A few seconds later both planes reversed directions and headed back towards their airbase. Draco nodded.

"Green brooms are following them home," said Blaise. "If they turn around, Green brooms will shoot them down for us." The two red brooms disappeared from the screen.

"They vanished!" Draco yelped.

"Oh," Harry said, "That means they aren't your problem any more. Green brooms are watching them. So they aren't relevant anymore. I'll admit it's somewhat confusing. Would you rather that the map show them?"

A small discussion broke out when Neville shouted. "Five yellows from the south! They are heading towards the _Snitch._ "

Draco looked at the main map. The _Snitch_ was a friendly ship almost due west of them. Two groups of planes had taken off, two from the field directly south of the _Bludger, three_ from the field to the southwest.

"Blaise, tell the _Snitch_ to move towards us and have our captain close," Daphne said calmly. "Draco, help identify those planes starting from the West, Neville, start from the east...Gregory, target the first plane to turn red!"

"They might not be in our weapons range until too late!" Gregory said.

"Tell the _Snitch_ to head to the northeast! That may give us a bit more time. And where the _hell_ are our brooms?" Daphne said, causing Professor Asimov to blink a few times, then smile.

Draco pointed his wand to the westmost broom, 1954. You had to point to the big screen, the little screens wouldn't register the movement until you'd selected a target. After that, it worked OK. _That's just the way the equipment works_ , Harry had said, shrugging. _Muggle technology has it's own rules._ He'd actually explained that he'd translated it, so that the effect was the same. You had to pay careful attention or you could accidentally focus on the wrong broom. Draco realized that 1954 wasn't the west most broom, his aim had been off, but he sent out the challenge command. _Faster to do it out of order than to do it in the right order._ A moment later 1954 flicked red. He aimed at the actual western broom 1205, and sent out the challenge. No harm done. There was no rhyme or reason to the number system, not that Draco could see. The simulation made sure the numbers were unique, and always used four digits.

Draco glanced at the main board, and saw another grey commercial airliner had taken off. No question mark. 1205 disappeared off the board, a phantom sighting. That actually made sense, apparently Muggle warplanes often flew in pairs. Two sets of two brooms each, not three and two.

Draco started to query the middle broom, but Neville was on it. He switched his attention back to the north.

"Our brooms are intercepting theirs," Blaise said calmly.

"What do we do about those yellow ships?" Hermione asked. She didn't have any task, so she'd been watching the main board. They were moving quickly, almost as fast as brooms. They turned red almost instantly.

"We aren't responsible for ships, are we?" Daphne asked.

"Not really," said Harry. "You aren't equipped to deal with large ships, but if they are small enough you can attack them."

"Blaise," said Daphne, but he was already talking to the rest of the fleet.

Draco looked back at the board and his grey commercial plane suddenly had a red broom almost on top of it, bearing down on them.

"Incoming Red broom from the north!" Draco shouted. "Target 1745 right next to Grey 1305. Already inside yellow and _why didn't it show up before_ , Harry?"

"They hide behind the much bigger commercial planes, in your blind spot."

The room was a rush of activity, Hermione was shifting her shield to cover 1745 while Gregory targeted it. A dogfight raged to the south, with several brooms from each side. A green broom disappeared, but then a red vanished. Then another.

"I can't target 1745," Gregory said, "I might hit the grey broom. What do I do?"

"Under no circumstances may you endanger grey brooms," Harry's voice boomed across the room. "There are hundred of innocent people on board."

"Blaise, order grey to divert and go around to the east." Daphne said.

"Shooting them down is not only morally wrong, it may drive other countries into this war." Harry was continuing in even tones, but it was distracting. Professor Asimov was saying something about the complex relationships between the Muggle governments involved.

"Can we do that?" Neville asked.

"We can try. _They_ don't want to get shot down," said Daphne, then almost to herself, "They don't, do they Harry?"

"Besides, they are heading into a dogfight," Hermione pointed out.

"1305 is turning, I'm locking onto 1745!" Gregory shouted.

"1745 is moving back towards 1305. It's following it," Draco said.

"1305 will comply with our commands. I'm routing him in a circle, around us," said Blaise.

Draco looked at the clock, which had just shifted to 21:00.

* * *

21:30:16

Traffic had died down, there were no inbound reds.

"How does the numbering work, Harry?" Draco asked.

"The computer just gives a new number to everything. It's confusing because your computer and the other computers in the fleet see things differently at different times and use different numbers. So all those numbers that get skipped, some other crew and ship is using them. Simulated crew in this case. But if the two computers agree they are seeing the same object with two numbers they'll reconcile them."

"Speak of the devil," said Professor Asimov, and pointed to the map. A new ship had entered the eastern edge. It was green.

Despite what Harry said, apparently some parts of the communication were simulated. Blaise transferred the sound to the speaker. " _Bludger,_ this is Skysweeper _Dopplebeater Defense_. We are on route to join and will be there shortly. We will receive handoff at twenty two hundred."

The red airfields lit up.

"I see six, no eight brooms from the south," Neville's voice sounded strained.

"Six from the North," Draco said.

" _Dopplebeater Defense_ reporting eight brooms from the east. It will handle those. Informing the fleet."

Daphne inspected the map for a few long seconds, then calmly started giving orders. "Neville, watch the north east side. Blaise, tell all grey traffic to leave. This is getting ugly. I want a no fly zone one minute wider than our red line, and one minute around the _Golden Snitch_. Fire on anything inside that line, no warning Gregory. Hermione, swing the shields to cover as many planes as you can."

The next thirty minutes felt like hours and by ten pm Daphne's voice sounded raspy and broken. Eventually the last red broom fled the scene. They had lost three more green brooms, but no ships. The room suddenly brightened, and all of the displays except the clock disappeared. It showed 22:05:50.

"I think you did well," said Harry, "Lots to think about. We'll discuss it more later."

The rest of the conspiracy sat blinking and covering their eyes. Gregory stood up and stretched. Hermione yawned. Neville rubbed his neck, and Draco understood, he'd tensed up for the last twenty minutes.

"Are they really like that, Muggle wars?" Neville asked.

"Well, that was a _particularly_ exciting two hours," Harry said. "Not much point simulating the days when nothing happens."

"War is six months of boredom followed by a few hours of terror," said Professor Asimov, sounding like he was quoting someone.

"And that complicated?" asked Gregory. "A general and a full staff for this?"

"The actual staff is much bigger, but I didn't want to get into too many details," said Harry. "Even in communications you might be talking to the other ships, the various planes, your own ship, superior officers to clarify orders if time allows. Compared to the real thing, this is a bare-bones simulation. Magical wars are fairly simple by comparison. Actually, that's not true. They have a _different_ sort of complexity. But I set up this simulation because it's a good test of how you think, react, pay attention, and those questions cut across technology and magic."

"Another tough day of saving the world," Blaise said, and the rest of the Bayesian Conspiracy laughed.

Except for Harry Potter.

* * *

Author's Note - I will be taking a brief hiatus. Next chapter will be posted in roughly two weeks.


	35. Wargames, Part 2 (Purple and Green)

_"Beware the angry man. Beware the violent man. But mostly beware the man you cannot predict." - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

 _Monday_

Today was Hermione's turn to lecture the first years, so Draco joined Gregory and Vincent's martial arts practice after breakfast. Of all of them, Draco missed practice most often – Harry's schedule was flexible enough to make practice whenever, but Draco had to lecture as well as take a full course load. So he lagged behind, but at least he wasn't doubled over panting in the first half hour. They ended the session sparring and Draco partnered with Harry while Neville watched.

They'd circled around each other early, warily. Draco took a quick step forward and jabbed, then pulled back, but Harry had stepped back. Harry tried to jab, but Draco circled away. This was typical for them, they didn't have any flashy moves yet, not like Vincent and Gregory. Draco was about to jab again but instinct stopped him. He shifted his feet – left foot forward - Harry stepped forward and jabbed, but Draco was also moving forward, snapping a hard kick into Harry's stomach. Harry's fist brushed Draco's chin at the same time, but just barely.

Harry doubled over and collapsed onto the ground.

"Sorry!" Draco said. Wizards could take more damage than Muggles, but it didn't make it any less painful. Vincent or Gregory would have pulled their kick back, Draco wasn't skilled enough. Harry rolled on the ground, not quite retching but making gurgling noises. Gregory was talking to Harry and Vincent pulled Draco aside.

"He walked into that," Vincent said. "And you over-committed. If he'd jumped out of the way, or swept your leg aside he'd have knocked you over and sat on you." They'd practiced that. If someone wound up sitting on your chest they'd pin your arms underneath their legs. Even if you had a wand out you'd be hard pressed to use it. You'd lose to gravity. Vincent and Gregory could sometimes recover from that disadvantage, with their years of training and conditioning. Crabbe could throw any of them off and Gregory managed to slip out. But neither Harry, Neville or Draco could. For them, having an opponent on top of you meant losing, and badly.

"Point taken," said Draco, looking over at Harry who had at least gotten up to his knees. They walked over to Harry.

"Good kick," Harry managed to gasp out. "What did I do wrong?" he asked Gregory, after he was finally able to stand up straight. They started walking back inside the castle, the only had twenty minutes to make it up all those flights to Offense Against the Dark Arts and Harry wasn't walking quickly.

"You telegraphed it, and you took an actual step, which takes you off balance and makes you slow. I keep saying 'shuffle your feet.' You can take steps when you aren't really close, but at striking distance... just don't. Anything to add?" Gregory looked at Vincent.

"I'm not sure you should be closing against Draco, certainly not drastically like that. You're taller. That counts for a lot, at least until you develop a personal style." They started up the first of the flights of stairs and Harry kept going up with them, wincing at the first few stairs.

"Are you joining us today?" Draco asked.

Harry nodded. "I think I'm going to sit in on Offense from now on. I'm missing out, not attending. It's the one class where I can't just read the materials and plow ahead faster than the teacher can talk. It's really the only surprising class so far. And I need to keep up with what everyone knows to plan the Muggle Naval Simulation scenarios."

A year ago, that would have offended Draco immeasurably. Not what Harry said, but just the reminder that he was above taking classes. Now Draco felt that nothing Harry could say or do would offend him.

"Besides, I hear there's going to be an announcement for everyone," Harry added, and Draco remembered that Harry could still annoy him easily enough.

* * *

The group was one of the last to arrive at Offense. Harry joined Draco and Gregory among the Slytherin contingent while Neville and Vincent took their usual seats with the Hufflepuffs. Draco noticed Hermione sitting with the Gryffindors. He was about to nudge Harry when Professor Lockhart strolled out from the teacher's office and flashed the smile he opened every class with.

It was easy to like Professor Lockhart.

"Hello, and I hope you all had a refreshing weekend. Let's just jump right into it, shall we?" Professor Lockhart looked out among the students listening to his every word and smiled again, broadly.

"Battles are fought for so many reasons. To overthrow a government. To steal something, or keep it from being stolen. Vengeance. Honour. To defend a key point, be it a choke-point – although those mostly apply for muggles, since they can't apparate – or a trade route, or ley line. For glory. And usually, for power. Dominance. And as we've seen before battles can sweep up and rage across a land with innocent civilians caught in the middle."

The room started grumbling at the mention of that particular battle, and Draco unconsciously rubbed his left shoulder. Professor Lockhart shook his head, but still smiled.

"Well, I don't blame you for not taking that well. But hopefully you will be more pleased that for our next battle the Headmistress has graciously allowed me to include the entire student body of Hogwarts! Now now, please, let me finish."

"This does put you at a disadvantage, but in any battle – I suppose I should say 'war,' really, since the scale is so much bigger – for this _war_ you have so many skills besides spell casting that come into play. Battles are won on the battlefield, to be sure. Wars are won by planning, cunning, guile and bravery! You win wars by fighting the right battles, and that's something I have been woefully neglecting to teach."

"So, a brief summary of the format. There are South American tribes called the D'razi that fight a civil war every five summers. They put in bunch of green and purple sashes into a big barrel, and then reach in and pull out a sash. Whoever draws a purple sash joins the purple team, and whoever draws a green sash joins the green team. After the ceremony the D'razi are symbolically split in two, and they fight until there is just one side! Sometimes it takes a full year. So, at Friday's dinner we'll have barrels for each house. You'll pick a stone and that will decide which team you are on!"

"But, those are Slytherin colours!" Neville said. "Can't we pick something more ... neutral?"

"Not everything has to be about houses!" Professor Lockhart said, somewhat sharply. "But in fact, I did try to come up with two colours that weren't just black and white. I also considered solids and stripes, but as sartorial choices go..." he shook his head.

"It just wouldn't do. If it offends you then we'll just consider it a way to honor the D'razi or - if you prefer - Professor Quirrell. So, on Friday we'll have our lottery and your robes will adjust accordingly. Each house will have one leader for purple and one for green. If you are 'killed' in the game your robes will adjust accordingly. An hour after the lottery ends, the war will start and it will continue until one side has all their leaders killed. To represent the Fidelius Charm, you will be safe in your bed, _but nowhere else_."

Professor Lockhart stopped to take in a breath and Tracey Davis spoke up. "That seems simple, at least compared to having secret agents like last time. What's the catch?"

Professor Lockhart just smiled. "It's neither fun or realistic to know _all_ the rules ahead of time. But in any case many wars actually have well defined sides. While nobody knew for sure who the Death Eaters were, classical wars often involved differing nationalities that are often easy to tell apart by sight. Consider purple and green as your flags, two countries that hate each other. Don't be late for dinner on Friday! Now, let us turn to the discussion of scrying and how it pertains to scouting out territory..."

* * *

"He said _What?_ "

Headmistress McGonagall's tone had neither risen or fallen at the end, it had merely … sharpened, ending in a final, tight point then quickly expiring. Harry Potter pushed down the urge to be anywhere else. It was stupid, a reaction to being glared at by an adult who had such considerable experience intimidating children that she did it naturally. He felt sure it wasn't directed at him. Not exactly. Still, it didn't make it any more comfortable.

"It's not a bad idea," chuckled Mad-eye, standing in the back corner of the Headmistress's office, where he could keep an eye on the room and the fireplace. "Mind you, I'm not sticking up for the lad. We could've used more people who knew about intrigue for the Order. Including Albus. Lot of time and people lost, learning those lessons." Several of the paintings around Alastor harrumphed or tsk'ed him with the portrait of Headmaster Walter Aragon calling out "Shame! Shame!" down at him.

If Mad-eye Moody heard the portraits, he gave no indication.

"I agree," said Harry. "It's a good idea. I mean, I thought he had checked with you first, of course, but this is just what we've been learning on a grander scale."

"The armies that Quirrell started are a voluntary activity. This involves everyone. It will be chaos," Minerva sighed. "Which is why you are positively giddy, Mr. Potter. But I would expect more from _you_ , Alastor." She leaned back in her chair as far as it would go. She wasn't exactly lying down, but she came fairly close to being horizontal. "I will talk with Gilderoy later. As for now, I intend to relax until the next unforeseen disaster strikes. I hope to get the full hour," she said as she pulled her hat over her face, dismissing them.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- I will be on a somewhat reduced schedule, but posting at least once a week.


	36. Too Much Information

_"Passion makes fools of the clever, yet turns fools into geniuses." - Lucius Malfoy, quoting Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

 _Wednesday_

Draco sat down heavily in the Potions classroom. He dropped his scroll onto his desk. Ten inches on the proper technique for mixing Arnica roots into Occulus potion. He'd stayed up late to finish it, but also to avoid going to bed early. He'd slept reasonably well back at home, still tossing and turning during the night, but always falling asleep after a few minutes.

Rest had not followed him back to Hogwarts. He'd spent hours each night awake, alone with his thoughts. Draco realized that he'd had too much to do in too little time. Getting his business arrangements set up, his correspondence. He'd filled up his daytime hours and collapsed into a dreamless sleep, or if he was awake he had pressing matters.

Now that Draco had urgent matters but no self-imposed deadlines he'd spent his first few nights lying awake, unable to sleep. If he closed his eyes the noise sounded like vines creeping along the ground, and the wind smelled of snow and pine needles. Gregory's snoring sounded relaxing in comparison, but set Draco's teeth on edge and something of it reminded him of the sound of ripping tendons. His shoulder would throb. After an hour or two Draco would sigh quietly in get up to review his lessons or do his homework. His grades would be exemplary for as long as he couldn't sleep.

 _Until he cracked._

Draco knew he could just go to the infirmary for a sleeping draught and he knew his pride was foolish, but he wasn't yet ready to go. Perhaps he'd just try to make some after class, but the thought of Professor Slughorn knowing felt even worse. He reconsidered talking to Madame Pomfrey.

"Good morning, Draco, Gregory" said Padma Patil, sitting to Draco's right. _Had she been there when he was sitting down?_ Gregory had taken the seat to his left, of course, but Draco didn't remember if the other seat had been occupied. He hadn't heard her sit down. She was smiling at him broadly.

He hadn't heard much, this morning.

"Good morning, Padma," Draco said, stiffing a yawn."I was up late," he said as an apology, motioning to his scroll as Gregory said hello. Draco looked around and saw Neville and Vincent. Today was a doubles session with Hufflepuff. If he'd been paying attention he would have sat next to them...

 _Pay attention to your guest!_ Lucius' voice rang sternly in Draco's head and he turned back to Padma. He hadn't really done more than glance around the room, really. But Draco focused his attention.

"You wrote way more than I did," Padma said, pointing to her own scroll.

"I couldn't think of a way to summarize it. I rambled. _Too much information_ and all that."

"That's an interesting way of putting it," Padma said, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hands.

"It's something Harry says, _Too much information and not enough insight_ " Gregory interjected, then quickly gave an abashed look and leaned back, away from the conversation.

Draco knew that Harry didn't consider the Bayesian Conspiracy an important secret. He'd be perfectly happy to lecture the entire school on it, if he felt they were ready. But Harry did recognize that by limiting the group ensured that people gave his lessons importance. If – when – Harry spouted off insights that revealed deep truths of human fallacy or the natural order people ignored him or even ridiculed him.

(Draco made fun of Harry, too. Half of the fun of camaraderie involved mocking your friends foibles. And sometimes Draco didn't want people to have quite as good an understanding as Harry was willing to impart.)

But when Harry doled out the truth slowly and made the recipients feel like a self-selected elite crowd, the same people would hang on his every word. Even knowing the trick, Draco felt more respectful during Conspiracy meetings. Harry left Galleons all over the place and nobody picked them up, but when he parceled out Knuts to their secret society, everyone quickly deposited them and thanked Harry profusely.

Gregory, and most of the newer members of the Conspiracy, considered it their duty to guard the information they'd learned, lest the shared knowledge make them less important. Draco found it amusing, sometimes.

"It's basically the same thing that Professor Quirrel talked about last year. If you know that exposing trolls to sunlight turned them to stone, you might be tempted to use that information..."

"Instead of just apparating away," Padma finished. The classroom was filling up, but Professor Slughorn hadn't arrived yet. Gregory was pretending to proofread his homework, face slowly losing his crimson blush.

"Right. Or deciding what spell to attack with, when you aren't even sure you should be dueling. You see?"

"Oh absolutely," she said and Draco mentally added _Or like carrying on a friendly conversation with a girl who has romantic intentions with you without understanding what's going on._ Fortunately at that moment Professor Slughorn strolled into the room, chuckling at some private joke, and said "Today we are going to learn how to brew the _Wiggenweld Potion_. Incredibly useful if you happen to be attacked by Sleeping Sirens or if you tend to oversleep and are late, yes I'm referring to you Mr. MacMillan. Don't think I didn't see you try to slink in behind me!"

* * *

 _Thursday_

Daphne Greengrass heard the footsteps behind her as she went up the stairs towards the Great Hall and breakfast. She glanced back to see Draco Malfoy barely putting one foot in front of the other, head down, behind her. As always, his robes and appearance looked immaculate, but the effect was ruined for once.

"Another long night?" she asked cheerfully.

Draco snorted, head still down, and she laughed. "What's funny?" It sounded like the words had escaped Draco's mouth by accident.

"Your snort. The rudest thing you've done to me, so I know you consider me a friend. To a mere acquaintance you would have answered. You only grunt to friends, when you think others can't hear you."

"And before breakfast," Draco added with a shrug.

They walked up the next few flights of stairs in silence and came out of the Dungeons.

"Daphne," Draco paused for a second, glancing around as they walked, and Daphne realized that there wasn't anyone else around. "What do girls say about me?"

Daphne almost giggled or rolled her eyes, but something in Draco's expression stopped her. They were both Silvery Slytherins, after all. And he seemed so. Despondent. Draco had been full of energy all last year, even after he almost got murdered. _Especially_ after he almost got murdered, and then when he rushed around trying to help after coming back to Hogwarts. But now his bursts of energy seemed to happen less often. He'd sit and think or hang out in the library. Now he only had energy when he was interacting with other people, in public.

 _Was Draco moping about a girl?_ Did boys even do that? Boys in stories performed wildly outlandish acts to impress girls and - judging from the gossip - Draco _had_. Although Daphne did not for one minute believe Milicent Bulstrode's claim that Draco had dueled an Auror in Training for Hermione's hand. But the funny thing was, that wasn't out of the realm of reason. Draco probably had the ability, he'd been ambushed several times and while he hadn't won all of those duels he'd hardly been disgraced. No, the story didn't feel believable because she couldn't imagine Draco _having_ to duel some foolish auror-wannabe.

Outwardly, Daphne considered the question for seven more steps. Her mother had told her that treating other people's questions as serious and considering them fully would mark her as a serious thinker. And seven was lucky, after all. But she did actually come up with a few interesting thoughts during her pause.

"Because of Hermione?"

"No, because of Padma," Draco answered. "I … I didn't realize she liked me, so I'm thinking about everything I said to her – or didn't say – and it all seems innocent enough. But undoubtedly I've forgotten things. Does she think I've been cruel? Do others?"

"Fortunately for you, girls think all boys are oblivious. This is the rare case where the fundamental attribution error doesn't apply. Not for a few years, at least. We're all very quick to point out to each other that sometimes when a boy isn't paying attention, it just means you haven't gotten his attention. Although now that I think about it Girls are usually oblivious, too. Your date with Hermione did get a lot of gossip and talk, but it's just talk..."

" _Talk is never just talk_ ," Draco interrupted. Then, more softly, "Sorry."

Daphne nodded, she saw his point. Draco hadn't asked what to do, he'd asked how he appeared to others. A subtle difference, but an important one. Daphne took seven more steps, then realized something she could say.

"Do you remember last year during our battle in the Hallways, when I challenged Neville to a duel?

Draco nodded. She noticed that he'd straightened up as they got closer to the hall. He'd gone from looking like a tired boy to a bored noble over the last hundred steps, like Draco Malfoy could transfigure himself into the outward appearance he desired. His strides lengthened, although he'd slowed after starting to pull away from Daphne.

"Did you ever consider _why_?" she asked him.

"To win the battle, obviously," Draco said, taking four steps. He suddenly stopped and turned towards her. Daphne blushed. At the time, she'd wanted people to notice. She'd felt annoyed they hadn't noticed...

"So," Draco said, starting to walk again, "I think about it much more than anyone else? Just because I can say ' _egocentric bias_ ' doesn't make me immune."

The nice thing about being with a fellow Bayesian Conspirator is that you could have public conversations and sometimes nobody else could follow. Harry called that the _Darmok effect_ for no reason Daphne could see. They'd walked into the Great Hall now and sat down to breakfast. Draco's words drew few glances, everyone knew he sometimes spoke in the cryptic way more suited to Harry Potter than the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy.

"No..." Daphne drawled the words out. There had been hours of discussion spread over the last few days. She'd discussed it with the Slytherin witches, who had noticed Padma's crush a few months ago and had wondered how she'd react to the news of Draco's date with Hermione. Tracey Davis had said Parvati had teased her sister during the entire second half of the train ride, until Hannah Abbot had stepped in to separate them. There had been ominous talk of love potions, duels, and an intra-family feud that would last a lifetime. Typical teenage girl declarations, the kind of thing that Daphne heard on a monthly basis.

"Let's just say that witches don't assign you much agency," she said. "In this regard" she added hastily.

Draco had cut up some fruit and took a bite, chewing slowly. Even though he'd paused to eat, it made him seem wise. _That really was good advice, to treat all questions with respect._ "So, I'm a plot's goal?" he said, after he swallowed. Several heads swung around to look at Draco and smile. The last two sentences had been easily to understand. Draco just rolled his eyes and mumbled "Witches" under his breath and Lesath Lestrange and Blaise Zabini just laughed and returned to their breakfast.

Daphne took a bite of her pancakes and chewed slowly. Two could play that game.

"Only to the uninterested parties. And not a plot, a play. The audience mingles in the lobby during intermission, trying to guess the ending. Or at least the next scene. It's just a distraction from their problems for the evening."

"And that's all?" Draco asked, before biting down on a strawberry. He'd tilted his head at her and she felt like they were playing a subtle game. This was a discussion about Draco's romantic life - or lack thereof - but they were sitting in the Slytherin table and students slowly streamed into the room. Padma would be walking in any minute now, as would Gregory. And Draco and Daphne were breaking one of the unwritten rules of dating: _witches don't conspire with wizards against witches._ She just assumed that wizards had a similar rule.

And the people around them had figured out the conversation. Or at least enough. She needed to be obscure enough, to _Darmok_ the conversation.

"Hey, random question, everyone." She spoke up, addressing the table around them. "Which city has the bigger population, Detroit or Milwaukee? And another pair, Edinburgh or Aberdeen? Wait, don't blurt out the answers. Everyone write down your answers. Or whisper them to me." She took out a scroll and quill and passed it around the table.

All of the Bayesian Conspirators had been reading up on cognitive biases and psychology, and Harry had - of course - given them all a _different_ reading list so that they could take turns presenting their findings. For once Daphne knew something before the rest of the Conspiracy and she was going to use it. She got up from the table and leaned over and jotted down the answers that everyone gave, just putting tick marks. Then she went over to the other house tables and repeated the experiment, until she'd gotten enough responses.

She came back and set down the scrolls in front of Draco. "See?"

Gregory, Lesath, Blaise, all looked at the scroll. Tracey Davis, who'd just arrived as Daphne returned, looked over Daphne's shoulder as well, then just walked away.

 _Detroit: 26, Milwaukee: 5_

 _Aberdeen: 13, Edinburgh:17 (Not sure:1)_

Gregory said, "What are the right answers?"

"Oh," Daphne said, "Detroit and Edinburgh. People got it right, which you'd expect. Some people wouldn't know and they'd guess, and some people would know and they'd get the right answer. For things like this - questions of common knowledge - a poll usually gets the right answers. But that's not the _interesting_ thing."

Lesath looked up from the scroll. "We were much more sure about Detroit."

Daphne beamed. "Yes, and that doesn't make sense! Why are we much more sure about an American cities? In both cases the larger city is about twice the population of the smaller one. You'd think we'd know more about ours."

Gregory said "Well, I hadn't heard of Milwaukee. So I figured it was smaller. But I wasn't sure about the other two. I got it right! But it was just a guess."

Daphne nodded. "Yes, when they originally did this experiment, it was in Germany and they used Hannover and Bielefeld as the local cities. And the Germans all knew that Detroit was bigger, but they were pretty evenly divided on the German cities. But when they asked a bunch of Americans, the percentages reversed. All the Americans knew Hanover was bigger. They'd never heard of Bielefled. But only sixty percent of Americans knew Detroit was bigger. Because all the Americans had heard of Milwaukee."

"Weird," said Theodore Nott.

Daphne sat back down next to Draco, speaking softly. "It's called the _recognition heuristic_. People just assume that things they have heard of are bigger or more important than things they haven't heard of. It's a good rule of thumb, actually. It can lead you astray, of course, but as this example shows people who have more information don't necessarily do better." She took another bite of the pancake. The others were drifting away, as she lectured Draco on psychology.

"The funny thing is the researchers were studying something else. It was a German guy, and the Hanover question was meant to be the easy question and the Detroit one was the hard question. But then the results came back ... and they had a new study."

Daphne leaned over to Draco, "Do you get what I'm trying to tell you?" she asked, glancing round the table and raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Draco had finished the last of his fruit, but chewed slowly on a piece of buttered bread.

"I think I do, Miss Greengrass. I think I do. 'Do not meddle in the affairs of witches...'" He shoved the remaining toast into his mouth. Daphne could hear the end of the quote in her head. _For they are subtle and quick to anger._ Harry had said that several times over the last year, although with wizards instead of witches.

Draco finished chewing and then leaned over, smiling. "You are right, I wouldn't want too much information. Thanks for your help."

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- The recognition heuristic study was (accidentally) performed by Goldstein  & Gigerenzer in 2001.

Currently Detroit's population is much closer to Milwaukee's, but it has lost 300,000+ people since the 1990 census. Picking UK examples was much tougher, because I don't understand how they define cities vs metropolitan areas. I may have gotten it technically wrong.

 _Darmok_ (the Star Trek: Next Generation episode) originally aired on Sept 30, 1991.


	37. Wargames, Part 3

_"Disguise yourself, but remember where the disguise ends and self begins." - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

The Drawing proceeded briskly with a separate barrel for each house and no pause between students, unlike the Sorting. Students moved quickly to their barrel, thrust in a hand, pulled out a stone and with a flash their robes changed to announce their faction. The drawing started slowly, but after the first students' robes changed the effect felt routine. Now people moved along steadily as yet again the magical became mundane. A few minutes into the Drawing there was a brilliant green flash, brighter than normal, and everyone stopped chatting. Percy Weasley's brilliant robes had acquired a prominent green sash and locket. The first leader had been revealed.

The twins let out a groan. "Come on, Purple!" drawled Fred or George, to great laughter.

"Hurry along," said Headmistress McGonagall, standing at the lectern overlooking the four rows of students moving slowly to the barrels, "We haven't all night."

Draco sat next to Gregory, it would take about fifteen minutes before the older students finished. Gryffindors just rushed their barrel, Hufflepuffs moved in an orderly fashion that made sense to them, and nobody understood the Ravenclaw system. Slytherins queued by seniority and the fifth year was up. Another flash and everyone turned to see Lesath Lestrange wearing the purple sash of leadership.

Lesath blanched slightly then returned to his seat. Other students in purple robes moved to join him but nobody spoke once they'd selected their colour – Professor Lockhart had indicated that the stones had several charms on them (apart from the robe-changing charm) to ensure fairness. Students who picked later weren't at a disadvantage for plotting. The room grew quieter as people selected. Draco thought it imbued the process with the dignity it sorely needed.

"Lesath as leader, huh," Gregory said. "He looks like he's going to be sick. What will we do if we get Purple?"

"Follow Lesath," Draco said, automatically. About a quarter of the people's robes gave no obvious sign of any change. They could be civilians, such as he'd been in the Autumn battle when he'd lost his arm. Or perhaps sleepers. Draco reminded himself that some people who had purple robes were probably secretly green, and vice versa.

Professor Lockhart stepped up to the lectern. Apparently with half the students sitting mutely the room was quiet enough for him.

"While we're still picking, I'd like to say that the rules are simplicity itself," Professor Lockhart said. "Each side has four leaders, and when all four are dead that side has lost. In order to make up for the relatively vast differences in spell casting power, the only spells that can be used are _Somnium_ and your _Patronus,_ for those who can cast it. That means that everyone is on roughly equal footing with seventh years. Those are the basics, but the rules are not simple. For example, some individuals will be allowed more complex spells, and they'll know who they are. Rest assured that these individuals, like the leadership sashes, are determined randomly. Casting a spell that you know in real life but not in the game will lead to disqualification. To ensure that this particular War doesn't take longer than the weekend, there will be some rules that come into play around lunchtime Sunday, to speed things up. Should it come to that."

"Additionally you will all receive tidbits of information, mostly true _._ "

Draco glanced behind him and saw Harry Potter smiling gleefully. Draco hadn't been wrong, at the beginning of the year. Harry really did love the battles, but had withheld himself out of them for some reason. But with an all-school war, Harry was involved again. _Why had he denied himself the pleasure?_ Was this part of Voldemort's curse that Hermione had mentioned? That didn't make sense, he'd have to sit this fight out as well. Perhaps Harry had solved the curse. He hadn't said anything. But Draco could see Harry's joy and Harry, seeing Draco, gave a nod and a thumbs up, then held up his hand to his heart and rubbed his fingers across his chest diagonally, then pointed to Lesath.

There was still the Green leader for Slytherin and they were almost done with the third years. Draco shrugged, it's not like he could control the selection, so what was the point of worrying or hoping? Draco and the rest of the second years got up, Professor Lockhart still talking.

"...because, of course, while duels win battles, good intelligence wins wars. So there you go. Also, based on some feedback I've decided not to institute detention for those who died, unless you get disqualified. However, only members of the winning tribe will be invited to the victory feast, and I'm told the House Elves will really outdo themselves for dessert."

Draco's turn was up and he quickly reached into the barrel and grabbed the first stone, as his fingers closed around it his robes flashed to Purple. Gregory went after him and also got Purple. Draco went back to his seat, head turned, watching the line. Harry was almost up.

The Green Leader still hadn't been selected. Worrying served no purpose, but Draco couldn't help himself. _Just my luck to have Harry draw it, instead of me_. Actually, that wouldn't be so bad. Draco started to work out the possibilities. In many ways it would be refreshing, fighting Harry as part of a game, but a quick flash revealed Harry without any special markings or sash. Just green robes.

Harry took in stride and went back to the green side of the Slytherin table. Most of the houses had naturally divided themselves into their respective two sides. Draco glanced around the other tables, it seemed that seven of the leaders had been selected, and he didn't know any of them well. He knew Marcus Belby, the Purple Leader for Ravenclaw, somewhat. Glancing at the Gryffindor table, he saw that Hermione's hair tumbling across the shoulders of her green robe. _  
_

The Slytherin first years were drawing their stones and – with a bright flash – Colin Creevey blinked several times and stared down at the green sash of leadership, before breaking out a huge grin and practically skipping on his way back to the table.

 _Now that's interesting,_ Draco thought, _He'll just go to Potter for advice. It's like Harry being in charge, but with a delay._

"I see that we are about done. Some final announcements. Once you get back to your room, there will be mail delivery, you are all familiar with the procedure. You'll be given a few minutes to digest any information you receive. At the signal, the war begins. And remember, no spells can be cast by you or at you when you are at home."

Several students tried to say something, but nothing came out. Ginny Weasley frantically jumped up and down but Professor Lockhart shook his headwhile taking out his wand. " _Since there are no questions_ ," he said, smilingly, and he waved his wand over the crowd and said a chant that Draco couldn't quite make out.

Draco found himself sitting in his own bed. He lifted his head and saw Gregory and Harry's bewildered looks.

* * *

Harry looked up, shock of disorientation fading. _You can't apparate in Hogwarts_ which begged the question of what had just happened. The easiest way would be to just false memory charm everyone to go to their rooms and forget the walk. Had any time passed? Harry glanced down at his watch, and sure enough it was almost 7:30. Nearly fifteen minutes missing. Harry gritted his teeth, false memory charms should be banned, although this one – if it was one, and not some more powerful, subtle spell – seemed harmless enough. Just overly dramatic.

In any case, Harry's more urgent concern involved leaving the room alive.

"Well, that's another fine mess you've gotten us into, Draco," Harry joked. Gregory looked sharply over at him, while Draco cocked his head slightly, watching Draco.

"Vene lalare bokor sohap hewelog baramie tomotim ciep toluwan wi?" Gregory said, looking at Draco. Draco now turned his head towards Gregory, but kept his eyes on Harry. There was something in how he was watching them, Harry recognized that Draco was plotting. Already.

Draco shrugged and said, "Na cinarieg rietiehi arepod erusitot Petter huger hihulog." Harry thought _Petter_ may refer to him. Apparently Lockhart had cast another spell to make the two teams unable to understand each other. That … _made sense_. Draco said something to Harry, the intonation sounded like a question, but Harry just shook his head _No_ and raised his hands in a helpless shrug.

Often warring factions would be co-located, but separated by different native languages. Perhaps Professor Lockhart had used some warring tribes model, like some of the brewing European conflicts that the Muggle Parliament fretted about. Another way to differentiate the two factions. But had Draco said his name?

"Gregory," Harry said, loudly. Gregory looked over. Draco and Gregory exchanged a few phrases.

"Herry," Gregory said.

Harry nodded and pointed to himself. Then pointed to Gregory and said "Gregory," and then pointed to Draco and said "Draco." _This experiment probably helped them more than it helped me, oh well._ Harry eyed the room. He was closest to the door and if he dove for it once the war started he'd probably be able to make it out. Draco and Gregory spoke quickly and he didn't recognize any more names, so they'd probably stopped referring to people directly. _Definitely helped them more than me._

Well, that wasn't necessarily so bad. They were involved in a wargame, but just a game and not necessarily zero-sum. In the strict sense, there could only be one winner, but if the process enhanced the prestige of everyone in the room that would be a nice benefit. _Still, no more experiments._ Harry considered the problem of escaping. Then he kicked himself, and got up out of his bed. Gregory and Draco instantly had their wands out, but then stopped.

The war hadn't started, not yet. There'd been no mail, and no signal. Harry took a few steps towards his chest before Draco and Gregory were up, collecting items from around the room and tossing them onto their beds. Harry went into his trunk.

Harry already stored emergency equipment in his pouch, but took a quick inventory just to make sure it hadn't been tampered with. He'd witnessed the fall battle in the lake, when the other young Slytherins had been abducted without any gear. He still had everything he expected. He grabbed a vial of Polyjuice and put it carefully into his pouch. It probably wasn't worth using now, but ' _Be Prepared_ ' rang in his head. Harry felt guilty, but there were no rules against it. He certainly wouldn't use anything unreasonably powerful, nothing whose existence he dare not reveal. Harry considered leaving the potion behind, just to keep himself from being tempted, but Polyjuice potions were merely expensive, not rare. He packed it in his pouch. It probably belonged there in any case.

Harry heard the flutter of wings and raced out of the trunk and jumped onto his bed. The owls had dropped off their letters and were already back at the window.

Gregory and Draco were hastily shoving spare wands into holsters. Draco had changed into his more formal robes, but they'd apparently changed colour as soon as he put them on.

"That was a good idea," Harry said to nobody. Draco looked over and Harry pointed to Draco's robes and then laughed. Draco just shook his head, and there was something odd in the way he was acting. Draco had been sleeping poorly, even Harry had noticed. He may just be tired. That was another important discussion to have.

 _When he could talk to Draco._

Harry Potter opened up his letter:

 _Daphne Greengrass (who wears a neutral robe) is secretly loyal to green._

 _You are allowed to cast Expelliarmus, in addition to standard spells. If you cast this on your leader successfully, you steal the leadership stash. (This is true for anyone)._

 _The purple leader of Slytherin is immune to Somnium._

 _You may summon a house elf once every twelve hours to bring a small set of rations by loudly asking for "Emergency Food, please!". Only one student in ten has this ability. If your house elf is shot by a spell during this time you lose this ability.  
_

Harry chuckled at the last one. _He_ could summon the house elf already, but this made sense in game. In real wars lack of food was a confounding factor. If this went for a full two days some students would be able to dole out food. Nobody would be in danger of starving, but it would add level of stress. Harry wondered when the twelve hours reset. In any case, he had a full pouch of Granola bars and bottles of water, but he'd never planned on supporting multiple people for days. That was a gross oversight, he'd stock up and buy several weeks worth of rations for a small team. _Just in case_.

Harry went back to reading.

 _There are twelve traitors._

Harry considered this. Roughly three traitors per house, one or two each side, if they were divided evenly. Which meant that he shouldn't worry about traitors too much. From a strictly numerical point of view most people wouldn't be a traitor. Giving this information wasn't unrealistic. In a real battle you'd have to worry about this. However, as a simulation, Harry had to admit it worked pretty well. It gave him a rough estimate to work with. A _base error rate_. Paradoxically, rarer traitors could do incredible damage if everyone automatically trusted everyone else. If everyone suspected everyone else then the resulting security level would supress traitors. But with so few, security would (in most cases) be counterproductive. The classic tradeoff. Harry decided to focus on rooting out the (approximately) one and a half traitors wearing green Slytherin robes.

His first step: discover if there were passwords for the purple traitors secretly loyal to green. Presumably Colin would be given that information. If not, he could ask around. There was no reason that purple and green would have symmetric security measures, but those kind of things often happened, in simulations.

What else did the letters imply? Assume each student got three to seven facts of information, even if they were all duplicated several times – they probably were, so people could separate fact from fiction - there were still hundreds of facts in this game. Again, this worked as a realistic simulation. In the real world you wouldn't necessarily know many details about your enemies.

 _This was going to be fun._

He read the rest of the facts, which dealt with who he could trust from other houses. Harry read the scroll several times, once again wishing there was a spell to give him Hermione's perfect recall. Suddenly there was a loud roar echoing throughout the halls that set his teeth on edge and Harry's scroll – along with Draco's and Gregory's – crumbled, the pieces of paper blown out the window by the fading echoes.

Harry took out his wand. Draco and Gregory did likewise.

"It occurs to me that I could do a lot of good keeping the two of you bottled up in here," Harry said. "I mean, if it was _just_ Draco and me, I'd probably be better of going. But you've got a broom, Gregory, and I don't imagine that they've suddenly made you a bad flyer. You could go tearing around the hallways, picking people off." Harry kept flicking glances between Gregory and Draco. Draco looked puzzled, probably trying to figure out what Harry's game was.

"But where's the fun in that?" Harry said and jumped up and raced for the door, wand out. Draco fired at him but nothing happened and then Draco was jumping behind his bed - putting it between them as a shield - but Harry was already out of the room before the first _Somnium_ was cast. He laughed at Draco's shouted word, even a _Babel_ spell didn't mask his meaning.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- The gibberish above is just gibberish. Not code or anything.


	38. Wargames, Part 4

_Friday night, 8pm_

A loud knock on the oaken door and five figures shifted wands to cover it. Colin nodded to Theodore Nott, who said "Who's there?" loudly.

"Harry Potter," came the answer, in Harry's distinctive voice.

Everyone relaxed, but Theodore shook his head. _There were traitors._ _Still, if Potter was a traitor they'd be in big trouble._ "Put a slip of your sleeve under the door. Or tell me the password."

"I don't know the password," came the rather arch reply, "and a traitor could know it in any case," but there was a rustling outside the door and a piece of a green cloth appeared under the door for a second, then disappeared. "This isn't a great position out here, you know. Not very defensible." The cloth disappeared. Colin looked around nervously and waved his hand, and Padma rushed over to the door and opened it a crack. Harry Potter slipped in, pushing the mussed hair away from his forehead and taking in the room in glance. Padma closed the door behind Harry.

"So," said Harry, "What do we know?"

* * *

 _Friday night, 8:15 pm_

Hermione dived behind the couch, which blocked three _Somniums_. She probably could have dodged them, she'd dodged multiple spells in practice before. But she'd discussed it with Harry extensively over the week, what they should not reveal about her abilities during the battle. Harry argued they should both sit this out, like they'd resigned their General positions, but his heart hadn't been in it. He'd missed it. If he hadn't been so afraid of revealing Hermione's secrets, he'd still be out there, every battle. But while they could explain away missing classes because of their tutoring, missing all-school events was too much. Hermione already felt the distance between her and other students. Harry had lived with it last year, but he was psychologically distant from most people anyway. Hermione missed the camaraderie.

Harry probably missed it to, judging by how easily he'd given in.

She could hear Ron Weasley moving to flank her while Parvati Patil and Seamus Finnigan kept up a steady stream of spells. She could rush Ron, tackle him and get out of the room, but that would look suspicious. Weasley wasn't a great Wizard, but he was athletic. No, she'd need some other way out. She'd left the Cloak of Invisibility in her room. They definitely wouldn't reveal that, just for a game.

Hermione would reveal an _in-game_ secret.

 _I bet in Slytherin they are all quietly plotting,_ she thought, as she looked around the Gryffindor common room for something useful. _Probably in Ravenclaw, too. But no, Gryffindors just join up with the nearest group and start attacking._

Although she had to admit that, as strategies went, it was surprisingly hard to argue against. At least, not from her current position of almost being one of the first casualties of war. Hermione poked her head above the couch. Ron had used several large chairs to move over behind a small chess table, that he noisily flipped over, then crouched behind. For some reason he'd ignored the perfectly good shield hanging on the wall behind him. It had belonged to Iucounu the Silent in the sixteen hundreds, who'd used it to defeat a small goblin army singlehandedly.

So _of course_ Gryffindor had claimed him as one of their own, even though he'd never gone to Hogwarts. Apparently the thought of _actually using_ the shield never occurred to Ron. It would easily stop Somnium spells, practically anything would. The shield itself was an older Roman design used by Legionnaires, meant to cover the front lines from attacking archers, and would be quite useful against a variety of spells. She dropped to her hands and knees and then, raising her wand

 _Accio Shield!_

Iucounu's shield lifted off the wall and flew towards her, bowling Ron over and knocking him from out behind the overturned table and into a clearing. She used her left hand to catch the shield edge first and with her right hand cast _Somnium_ on Ron, whose robes turned from a deep purple to crimson red.

Even if Ron had been watching, instead of rolling around grabbing the back of his head where the shield hit, he likely wouldn't have noticed Hermione's coordination. She could hear the surprise from Parvati and Seamus exchanged words, mostly gibberish but she heard the word _Accio_ easily enough. Her instructions had given her a list of spells to pick from. She'd almost gone with _Glisseo_ or _Stupefy_. But she'd decided _Accio_ would more useful and have the element of surprise, since the summoning charm was normally taught to fourth years.

Now she had to deal with Parvati and Seamus, to _keep_ the element of surprise for as long as possible. That would have been difficult, a minute ago.

Now she had a shield.

Hermione strapped it onto her left arm and started walking towards them.

* * *

 _Saturday, 1 am_

Lesath Lestrange watched as Draco talked to his Patronus, a silver Krait whispering in Draco's voice in that bizarre language that the Green Robes spoke. He didn't really trust Draco Malfoy, it was practically too good to be true that one of the cleverest Slytherins _also happened to be able to speak the enemy language_. On the other hand, the cleverest Slytherin was advising Colin Creevey - or so he'd been informed - so he took his luck where he could get it. Now Draco was speaking to his Patronus, easily understandable as he'd switched back to English.

"Go to each of the Purple leaders, and ask if they have anything to report. Inform them that Slytherin fight goes slowly, we have a lot of rooms in this dungeon and there's a definite advantage to defending, so we're not charging around the place blindly. We could send a team or two if you had some specific requirements," Draco glanced at Lesath, who nodded at this, and Draco continued, "but we'd need to know why. I'm looking for any information you have on identifying traitors. I believe that the password for neutrals secretly loyal to green may be 'Salamander,' but that's not 100%. May just be for Slytherins."

Draco finished up and his Patronus slithered away right through the door, probably towards Ravenclaw first. Lesath resumed his pacing. It had been exciting, drawing the sash of leadership, and he'd spent the first hour rushing around until Draco and Gregory found him and convinced him to hole up. He wasn't in that much danger, he could use any spell he knew - a perk of leadership - and probably nobody else knew their way around the dungeons as well, due to his years of skulking.

But Draco had pointed out that if he kept wandering around he would eventually run into a pack of green Slytherins, and then he'd be in trouble. So they'd set up camp in a defensible position, advertised it widely enough to make sure that people could deliver any information.

"Leadership is much more tedious than I imagined it," Lesath said to Draco.

" _The inverse of authority is responsibility._ You are in charge, so you can't just go run around and do what you want. I imagine Gregory is having loads of fun right now, flying around. He'll have plenty of excitement and stories on Monday."

"If he doesn't die right away," Lesath added. "Tell me, what's it like, hearing the Green people speak."

"It just sounds like they've got a ridiculous French accent. It's how I can tell they are speaking Green. I need to copy the accent to speak it to them."

"That's actually kind of funny," Lesath said, then fell silent. "Do we have a plan, yet? I think I see one, with the new information we've got. With Percy Weasley killed we have the advantage..."

Draco was shaking his head. "That's a scoreboard advantage, not a positional advantage. Necessary, but not sufficient. Losses on both sides are roughly even among Gryffindors and so the Survivors are abandoning the towers and heading out to just attack purples wherever they can. And you know they'll probably attack us first, once they secure someone that can help guide them down here. Granger's rumoured to have taken out a half dozen of us, and I believe those rumours. They have just the right hint of improbability, if that makes sense. Actually, if they do plan on attacking we could use my room as a base of operations. Those bridges just outside are a natural chokepoint. But a guide will know that..."

Lesath sighed. Draco was just thinking out loud, he didn't need to pay attention. Lesath instinctively knew that Lord Potter would want him to do his best and win this war as purple, despite being on the green side. It would keep people from suspecting that he was Potter's vassal. The experience would strengthen him for the coming years. But he also knew - because everyone knew - that his Lord would try his fullest to win as Green. Lesath had been acquiring power steadily over the last year, but personal power. Magical power. Socially, he still avoided most Slytherins although Potter had asked him to relax and make friends.

 _Being ordered to make friends didn't make it easier,_ it felt like being ordered to not think of elephants. The order contradicted the intent.

Lesath realized he'd been ignoring Draco and focused. Draco was still talking about the entrance to the dungeons.

"Draco, How do you learn to become a leader? Is there a crash course you can give me?"

Draco stopped for a second and considered. Lesath felt doubt gnawing at him when Draco replied "Of course I can, but since it's a crash course I'm going to skip details. The first and hardest step is to project confidence. When in doubt, over do it. At least in public..."

* * *

 _Saturday, 7:30 am._

The Great Hall normally bustled during breakfast. A typical Saturday wasn't nearly as busy, many students preferred to sleep in late and just skip breakfast unless there was an early Quiddich game or battle they had to attend. But today's breakfast was particularly sparse. Each table had only a few dozen students sitting at it. The Slytherin table held mainly green robes, and the Gryffindor table at the other end held purple robes only. The two middle tables had mainly neutral robes, or students wearing Red. The dead.

"I'm surprised they aren't in open warfare," Minerva McGonagall said to Professor Lockhart, who sat at her side picking at a small omelet.

"When you were in the order of the Phoenix, you still took time out for meals, as did Death Eaters," he replied, lifting a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

"Not in the same room," she pointed out. "How does it go?"

"Unexpectedly. I'd expected surprises, but Hufflepuffs inflicting the most casualties in their struggle? Hadn't expected that."

"Well, of course they did," said Pomona Spout, who'd shuffled up to the table on the other side of the Headmistress and sat down. "Gilderoy, Minerva. We're the House of Getting Things Done, even if ' _Things_ ' are your silly games. If you'd paid attention at all ... but Headmistress, I must protest. The students have broken into the gardens and stolen things."

"I'm sure they will return them once this is over," said Minerva, "won't they, _Professor Lockhart?_ "

Gilderoy Lockhart smiled, full of unabashed delight. " _Wonderful!_ I'd expected them to raid the potions stores and Professor Slughorn set up defenses. Why, young Mr. Vaughn is wearing red robes because of one of Horace's traps, although his compatriots escaped with enough compounds to brew several dozen _Pepperup_ potions ..." he trailed off under Spout's withering glare. "Well, yes, I should have informed you as well, I do apologize, but it honestly slipped my mind. I must admit I was never much for _Herbology..."_

"I know," said Pomona, coldly.

"Although now that I think about it, I do have some friends who can import some excellent plants and some new books for the library, although we'll have to get them translated from Spanish...but do tell me what they've taken!"

* * *

 _Saturday, 11 am._

Harry had been helping Padma coordinate the Green Gryffindor's assault on Slytherin. They'd tried to smuggle a guide or two out past the purples, but so far they'd all been turned back or killed. Colin's leadership was mixed, at best, but they were muddling along. Several people had openly ignored Colin and waited for Harry to give an order, but he'd just offered advice and backed whatever the Green Leader had ordered. It wasn't a great simulation, having random leaders. But given the short time frame an internal power struggle could be devastating. So, he'd quietly taken aside some dissenters and talked them down. He'd spent several hours last night doing that, which also allowed him to try and feel out who (if anybody) may be a traitor and who just felt annoyed at having to take orders from a first year.

It gave him some empathy for what he'd done to Amelia Bones.

But they'd sorted the situation out and the plans had been going smoothly (if slowly) for several hours. Currently Harry was coordinating the Green Slytherins capable of casting a _patronus_ spells to communicate with the other green factions. They were planning an assault on the Slytherin house. It would be hopeless, nobody from outside would be able to navigate down here, and the bridge itself served as a formidable defensive position. They'd tried to sneak some people out to help, but they'd been unsuccessful. Still, Harry's proposed plan had been accepted. Now they were just coordinating. They needed to time the assault with their attack on the other side of the bridge, and have both go simultaneously with a feint against Lestrange's room.

Coordinating these things was infuriatingly slow.

Harry had been proposing noon when he saw Peregrine Derrick start to cast. Harry shouted and had his wand out, but Nott stood between him and Derrick. Harry didn't have a shot, so he pointed his wand at Colin and shouted _Expelliarmus._ Colin's wand flew out of his hand right before Derrick's _Stupefy_ hit him squarely in the back. Then Harry hit the floor and rolled, everyone had their wands out and spells were flying. Harry shouted "Take him alive!" and then cast _Expelliarmus_ at Derrick and saw his wand go flying. Chaotic Theodore - Harry still thought of him that way, even though he was in Basilisk now - had managed to jump on the loose wand and now had it pointed at Derrick, who had his hands up and stood motionless.

Colin Creevey lay sprawled across the floor, his robes were bright red but there was no sash on them. Harry looked down at his own robes and their new adornment.

"It worked!" said Peregrine Derrick, "Although I thought I would be leader, that doesn't matter. Harry's better at this than I am, but the important thing is that now we aren't hampered by that sniveling little"

"So, you are saying you aren't the traitor?" Padma asked, beating Harry to the punch.

"Obviously. The green leader isn't dead. Just look," said Peregrine, lowering his hands. He didn't have a wand, so there was no point. "If a player kills their own leader, that isn't a death. Just a _change of command._ I mean, obviously its still a death, and I'm sorry, but Colin wasn't a great loss..."

Harry thought about it. He'd vetted Peregrine, and didn't believe he'd been a traitor. Of course, that could be biasing him right now, he didn't want to admit that he could be wrong. But Peregrine was an obvious candidate for being a traitor, since he spoke Purple, one of the few bilingual wizards they had. But Peregrine had volunteered the information, and provided useful information for the last twelve hours. Information that Harry had taken pains to confirm independently.

"How did you know it would work?" Harry asked, and everyone fell silent.

"Well, I overheard some Purples when they were coming back from the fourth level restroom, the one a few halls away from where they've set up shop. They are planning on getting rid of Lestrange. He's not very popular, as you know. They didn't know that I was hiding and they were just going to take command."

"I see. And they weren't just putting on a show for you?"

"No, they were speaking in Purple. Even if they knew I was there, they weren't speaking to me. Gregory was warning Draco not to try a coup..."

"Draco?" Harry cast his mind back to last night after the lottery, at the weird way Draco had acted. He groaned and almost slapped his forehead.

"Yeah, he said he'd just stupefy Lesath later on, maybe after lunch and blame some random green person. Look, I could only hear them for a minute or two, and they were being quiet so that nobody else could hear them, so it was good information. I knew if I told you, Harry, you'd just try to talk me out of it or kill me as a traitor, but we had to get rid of Colin. No offense."

He directed the last bit towards Colin Creevey, who had gotten shakily up to his feet and walked over to grab his wand. He couldn't speak, of course, but he glared at Peregrine Derrick as he snatched the wand of the floor and stomped out. Harry called out an apology, to no avail. Then he said "Wait!" and Colin's retreating form stopped.

Harry turned to Peregrine. "I don't think you were a traitor, Peregrine. And honestly, it wasn't even stupid, just an honest mistake. I don't think you are a traitor. _Somnium._ " Peregrine Derrick crumpled to the ground, and his robes were bright red before he hit the floor. "But we can't let people we're supposed to to trust do things like that." Harry walked over to Chaotic Theodore and took Derrick's wand and flipped it over to Colin. "When he wakes up I'll tell him to find you to get his wand back. I'm sorry Colin."

Colin caught the wand, but he was still gritting his teeth. Padma looked at Harry then Colin, putting it together. "Harry could have taken command whenever he wanted to. He only did it when you were going to be killed in any case. Maybe you should be mad it him, but nobody else saw it coming either." She moved away from the body on the ground. Nobody moved to wake up Peregrine Derrick as Colin Creevey walked off, shoulders slouched.


	39. Wargames, Part 5

_Saturday, 1pm_

Hermione poked her head around the side of her shield. Several purple robes stood on the other side of the bridge, heads poking above tables and chairs that had been locked down tightly after she'd _Accio_ 'd the first table into the river that separated the two sides. A few spells flew at her general direction, but to no avail. She looked at the ceiling, it was low, an athletic seventh year could probably brush his fingers on the rock if he jumped. It would be a tight squeeze for anyone riding a broom.

In any case it was a narrow passageway. It only widened to because of the slow river that the bridge was built to cross. The water's rushing noise sounded soothing, a calm randomness over the determined whispering she could hear from the other side of the river. Fred Weasley (definitely Fred, George was somewhere in a purple robe, or perhaps red by this point) looked over Hermione's shield for a second and then crouched back down beside her.

"Tell me again," Fred said.

"OK," said Vincent Crabbe. "Over that bridge, then the hallway widens a bit. First door to the left is the room I lived in last year with Draco, go past that door and you are straight into the commons. But the thing about Draco's room, is that it has a connection into the river."

"Draco has his own pool?" Hermione asked.

"It's more of a ... hot tub," Vincent said, looking down.

"My man," Fred said laughing, slapping Vincent on the shoulder. "Those guys know how to live." He kept laughing even after Hermione glared at him. "So the water's connected to this river. Should be right under there, somewhere," he gestured about twenty feet to the left of the opening, careful to keep his hand hidden behind the shield.

"Draco must surely have some defenses to that," Hermione said. "Even before this war he was attacked in his own room, he must have done something. Put a locked cover on the top of it. He wouldn't want something coming out of it at night, or someone."

"It's a natural opening. Worst case, we have to turn around. No, what you have to worry about is if they've stationed a guard in that room, we'll be sitting ducks when we pop up out of the water. And there aren't any monsters in the river," Vincent said. "That's just a story they tell frightened first years."

Vincent didn't bother to mention the stories they'd told him, last year. Upperclassman were much crueler in Slytherin than Hufflepuff.

"I don't know, do you see that light down there, under the bridge," Fred asked. The water itself wasn't clear, but gave off a pleasant green glow, with the waves making silvery lines on the cave walls and tables opposite them. Hermione had to admit that the effect looked stunning.

"That's always been there. How would you be able to see your way around at night if there weren't any lighting? We are underground here, you know." Vincent had never thought about it before now, but it seemed logical when he said it. And the light had always been there.

Hermione checked her watch. "I'll take care of the problem of getting past the guard in the room. I doubt they'll have more than one anyway. The diversion should be starting, and they are going to attack the other side of the bridge in about 20 minutes? Are we going to do this?" She looked to Fred and Vincent, and they all just nodded. The backed carefully away from the bridge and headed back up the stairs to regroup with the others. They'd need Hannah for the Bubble-Head charms. Hermione wondered why she'd picked that spell, or had it just been given to her randomly...

As they headed back up the stairs, Hermione heard Blaise Zabini's taunting call

 _"You. Shall. Not. PASS!"_

* * *

 _1.30 pm_

Blaise heard the spell's behind him, then the shouts and cries. He wheeled around. Spells streaked blue, red and sometimes just clear lines - like waves of pressure echoing through the air - across the common room. He took out his mirror and shouted "We're under attack. I can't tell how many. From inside, not from the bridge." Blaise dropped the mirror back to his side and darted towards the common room. Everyone had taken cover, Blaise spotted Tracey Davis firing a _stupefy_ towards the others. She actually looked quite fetching in purple, but he hadn't gotten the courage to tell her that yet.

"How many?" he shouted at her.

She fired off another spell and then shouted "I don't know. Eight?"

By their pre-arranged system, that meant _four_. Blaise thought it was a terrible system. The enemy already knew how many people they had, and he doubted that they'd get stupidly overconfident if they heard Tracey Davis miscount them. It seemed much more likely that there actually were eight people and Tracey simply forgot and blurted out the number she actually saw. _But whatever, that was the plan they'd agreed to_. Four people didn't pose a huge threat. Blaise went back to his position on the bridge just in time to see a flask flying through the air. It wasn't aimed towards him, it smashed squarely into the center of the bridge and the hallway disappeared into inky darkness with a crack. After the crack there should have been the sound of shattering glass, but the sound stopped abruptly, all sound ahead of him vanished. Blaise couldn't hear the running water, the footsteps crunching on the shattered remains of the potion flask, or the shouts of the charging students.

He certainly couldn't hear people diving into the river on the other shore.

Blaise crouched behind the table. The silent filaments of black clouds convulved once, and then seperated. Blaise cast _Luminos!_ instantly, before he could see who it was. The spell impacted onto a solid metal shield, nearly five feet tall and curved from left to right. A roman shield that covered the full body. His spell hit solidly with what should have been a loud clang, but there was only silence ahead of him and the shield kept coming. The ink split again, a second body appearing behind the shield-bearer.

"A little help!" Blaise shouted behind him, fumbling for his Erumpent potion. _It was just a small flask, it won't really hurt anybody. At least, it won't hurt anyone behind a huge shield_. Blaise stood up and quickly threw the bottle as hard as he could, ducking back down but keeping his eyes above the table. The flask squarely struck the shield, right between the center and the top, slightly to the right, and then world flashed red, there was still no noise except for Tracy's footsteps and surprised gasp behind him as Blaise watched the shield go flying back into the darkness which engulfed it and the Weasley Twin who'd been carrying it.

Blaise turned around to smile at Tracy when suddenly the Slytherin common room flashed with a blinding white light and an echoing thunderclap, and she was thrown into him.

* * *

Hermione jumped into the water and then watched as Vincent jumped in after her, at least until her billowing robes cut off her sight. The silencing spell would make sure nobody heard them and the charge should distract anyone watching, if they could somehow see through the potion of liquid night they'd stolen from Professor Slughorn's lab. They'd gone in well to the upstream side of the bridge, as far as they could get without being seen, which was well, because the current flowed briskly. It wasn't a wide river, maybe twenty feet across, but once they pushed off from the shore they were practically under the bridge before grabbing hold of the other side. Hermione quickly wrapped her sleeves tight around her arms, then looked up at the underside of the bridge, barely ten feet above them. Wisps of black smoke were drifting over the side, their smooth tendrils refracting through the bubbling current above.

Vincent tugged on her arm. "There's something down there, below us," he said. Hermione looked down towards the blue light. The moving water played tricks on her mind, but the shadows did seem to be moving. Actually, all of the shadows moved in a consistent pattern.

"It's just the light. It's not attached, it's just swimming in place. It makes everything look like it's a bit jumpy," she said just as a the world went briefly white, a flash of the battle above them. Fortunately they were still directly under the bridge, which had shielded them. After a second the world returned to focus. "Let's go." Hermione crawled along the rocks, eight feet or so beneath the surface. If she just let go of the wall the current pushed her along. Vincent was behind her, but he kept glancing back at the blue light. A shadow beside it shifted, but in the wrong direction of the other shadows.

"Hermione...something is definitely down there," he said.

"Found it! Well, if so it's been down there for ages, and it's left us alone, so let's just go ahead." Hermione glanced back, Vincent was right behind her. There was too much noise, water rushing around her, all the little eddies and currents stretching her senses. It felt beautiful, but unreal, like a movie theater's surround sound that provided detail you'd normally never hear. Normally she'd be able to tell if there was something crouching behind a rock this close to her, but not underwater. "Hopefully there will be enough light from Draco's room. It gets dark for a while. You stay here, I'll scout ahead."

Vincent was athletic and surprisingly nimble, but he wasn't small. If the tunnel narrowed he'd be unable to make it, and she didn't want him to panic and get claustrophobic. Hermione dived into the tunnel headfirst, pulling herself along the rocks. She'd pulled herself several body lengths, the light dimming but the walls didn't close in. A few more pulls and she could feel the tunnel curving up, and saw a light up ahead. She could see the top of a bookshelf, _this was the tunnel_ and she called out "Vincent" in a loud whisper but there was no response. Hermione wasn't sure if a guard could hear her if she shouted. She carefully got to the edge of the pool. There was nobody standing or walking in the room, but she couldn't see the lower half. She raised her wand almost to the surface, then poked her head above the water.

The room was empty. She quickly pulled her head back and then said, "Vincent, come on!" and waited, but there was no response.

"Vincent?" Hermione started crawling back down. Maybe he'd been spooked, or someone from the surface had seen him. That would be a problem, if he'd gotten hit by a spell the current would quickly carry him away and the river went into underwater caverns. There'd never been any students lost in the river, at least, it had never been mentioned in _Hogwarts, A History_ but that didn't mean it couldn't happen. Hermione turned around and pulled herself back through the tunnel. Now that she knew it was only thirty seconds the trip seemed much shorter. She got to the opening and carefully poked her head out.

"Vincent?"

The river looked the same, although above the water there were flashes and streaks of color. The inky blackness was gone, _probably someone who could cast Ventus showed up_ , and there were students on each side of the bridge lobbing spells across. Hermione studied them for a second, automatically identifying and the jinxes,when she saw a Vincent's body sprawled just above her, on the Slytherin side of the bridge, his red sleeve dripping water into the river.

Relief washed over Hermione. Whatever had gotten Vincent had fished him out, and was an 'in game' death. Not a monster, just a trap. A sudden burst of movement from the other side got her attention and then she felt an arm wrapping around her neck and she was yanked quickly out of the tunnel across the river, going upstream quickly. Her mind couldn't focus on anything for a second, then she saw the hand and the purple sleeve, lashed tightly with string to keep the robe from catching the water. Hermione threw her arms out, casually stronger than her attacker and suddenly she was free. The current caught her and pulled her downstream. She started swimming against the current for a second and then quickly turned so that she wasn't fighting the current and swam for shore and handholds before she got sucked under, but the current pulled her towards the center of the stream.

"Hermione!" she heard the voice and took a second to realize that it was Gregory Goyle and he was rushing up towards her, well underneath the water, easily navigating the current on his Nimbus. He'd lashed string around his wrists and ankles to keep the robes close. _I should have done that,_ Hermione thought as Gregory grabbed her hand and spun around, facing against the current as he helped her grab the back of his broom and then put his head down and they were both effortlessly pulled upstream. He dove down towards the blue light and as they pulled up towards it Hermione saw that there was a small underwater grotto a few feet behind the light. The perfect hiding place if you had a Bubble Headed Charm, like she did.

Or Gregory's gills. _Neville is on the purple team_ , she realized. Only Neville would raid the Herbology lab while everyone else went for the potions, and of course Gregory would have no trouble moving around the campus to meet up with him. Gregory pushed her gently into the depression, and Hermione realized there was no current here. Gregory quickly spun his broom and darted back to the middle of the river and she saw him reaching for his wand. Hermione had her wand out and said _Somn_... when she stopped.

If she put him to sleep the current would drag him away and she hadn't been practicing underwater broom riding for hours. Even if she accidentally slipped out while asleep Gregory would have no trouble grabbing her and safely depositing her on shore, like he'd done to Vincent. Hermione's frustrated scream formed tiny bubbles around the edge of her charm right as Gregory knocked her unconscious.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- 200 Followers! A nice little milestone!


	40. Chess and other Wargames

_Saturday, 10pm._

Draco Malfoy bolted upright as Harry flew through the doorway, wand out, firing spells rapidly into each corner of the room. Harry saw one spell fizzle - hitting the ward - in front of Draco's bewildered face before landing on his cot beside the door. Harry lifted up his head and looked around the room, empty save for his blond roommate.

"Sorry if I woke you, Draco," Harry said. Harry had been awake since 6pm last night, having adjusted his sleep schedule in preparation for the wargame. He'd been up nearly twenty eight hours at this point and wasn't tired yet, but with the battle still raging inside the dungeons he needed to get ready. Harry didn't trust any place without serious warding and dare not wait until sleep started pounding his judgement like a snare drum, so he'd arrived in bed early.

Normally his extra long sleep cycle was an advantage, if you had a time turner at least, but Harry couldn't stretch out multiple all-nighters with only cat naps. Others had offered him time to sleep, during the small pause after the Battle of Slytherin Bridge, but his body just didn't work like that. He needed a long break. Harry was going to crash, and soon. Draco stared at Harry's sash and said something, shaking his head.

"Oh, come off it Draco. I know you understand me," Harry said. Draco cocked his head and shrugged, his gesture clearly saying _I don't know_.

Harry raised his voice so that anyone nearby could hear him. "So, I talked to The-Girl-Who-Revived about your date, and she mentioned some _interesting_ facts about flower arrangements. I hadn't realized..."

"OK, OK," Draco said. "Just. _Sheesh_. Keep a sense of proportion. I thought I'd done well. What did I do wrong?"

"Even _you_ need feedback to figure out how to trip up people spying on you. I could believe you'd feed random misinformation to spies. It's not a huge stretch to imagine that anyone who tried to spy on you would understand you, although that would be much more obvious to someone who was bilingual. No, your plan to convince Derrick to kill Colin Creevey was _too_ inspired. He already wanted to do it, he'd been chafing at working for a first year. You overheard their grumbling, and your plan felt absolutely perfect. Then I remembered when the spell first hit. You kept looking to Gregory to see how he was acting, like you weren't sure what was going on. If you actually didn't understand me, that would be one thing. But you did and Gregory didn't, so you had to gauge your reaction. I should have known then, but I missed it. Once I found it it was you that Derrick conveniently overheard, I was almost certain. And now _you just spoke to me in Green_ which is pretty good proof, considering."

Harry smirked at the last few words.

"So, if I hadn't spoken up just now and was actually innocent, you'd blab about Hermione to everyone." Draco adjusted his pillow so that he could lean back comfortably against the wall, then folded his hands across his chest. "Just to try and confirm it."

"I was ... 95% certain," Harry said, shrugging. "And there's nobody out in the hall to overhear. But you had a good plan. Tell me, did you know that it was possible to coup a leader?"

"I'd heard a rumour to that effect. Hadn't confirmed it, but that didn't matter. Just my luck that you actually had that tidbit of information. Who told you?"

"Started with it. But that isn't nearly as lucky as starting out bilingual. This war would have wrapped up three hours ago if I'd had that. War's chaotic uncertainty, you have to love it. Anyway, sorry if I woke you," Harry said. Draco just harrumphed.

"I wasn't asleep yet," he said. "But I was in the area and felt better safe than sorry. I'm pretty tired, I didn't catch any breaks last night. You?"

"Nope," Harry yawned. Draco hadn't slept much Thursday night either, not that Harry could remember. "You haven't been sleeping well."

"Too interesting to sleep."

"I meant in general, you haven't been sleeping well. Is everything OK? I mean you could take a _Doorahkah_ potion, it doesn't keep you under, like the regular sleeping draught, but I'm told it makes it helps you fall asleep. It's not that potent, just the wizarding equivalent of warm milk."

"I hadn't heard of that," said Draco. "Is it easy to make?"

"Not too difficult. We've got the gubba nub nub plants on campus. Well, we did as of two days ago, I'm not sure we do now. We could brew up a pretty decent supply in a day or two. Maybe monday afternoon?"

"That sounds good," Draco said. "Although now I'm not really tired. Having someone fly into your room Auror Woo-style, all jumping sideways and firing blindly does that to me. A game of chess?"

"Sure." Draco set down his wand and leaned over to his desk. He was still on his cot, just grabbing pieces. He took a chess board and tossed it down to the middle of the room, where it landed with a dull splat. Harry put down his wand, his chess pieces were under his cot, and he reached under it until he felt the bag. "You know, I have no idea how the _Babel_ spell affects this."

"I just assumed they'd understand us. But I think it will work. After all, they are tied to us." Draco carefully emptied his bag of pieces on the floor and then said something that Harry couldn't understand. A few of Draco's green pieces grumbled backtalk, but they all started trudging away from Draco's cot to the middle of the room and taking their assigned positions on the chess board. Harry carefully leaned down and rolled his pieces out of the bag and told them to go to the board.

The silver King just looked up at him and said "At this hour? Surely you jest!"

"I'm not kidding, and stop calling me Shirley," Harry said, pointing to the board. His pieces started the long march. Draco watched them moving slowly across the floor, like regal metallic roaches spreading out towards the board.

"I assume, Harry being Potter and all, that you've already come up with a plan on how you are going to get out of bed in the morning," Draco said. Most of his pieces were already on the board, since it had landed closer to his side of the room and they'd gotten a head start. They were now calling out to the silver pieces, exhorting them to hurry up, but neither side's chessmen could understand the other, so they eventually got bored when their enemy ignored them and quieted down. A few of his pieces fell asleep where they stood.

"It's not like I'd tell you what it was. I have a few options, of course. I'm not going through the pool, if that's what you are asking. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but I've got a few theories. It's like the sunlight potion ... I don't need to know exactly what you did to know it's a bad idea."

Draco chuckled in the maniacal fashion Harry sometimes did, then said "Pawn to Queen Four, please." He actually said it twice, once in gibberish for his pieces, and then translated for Harry's sake. He had to repeat the command a few times, but his queen pawn hopped forward twice. Harry couldn't recall pawns hopping before, they usually just walked. Maybe it was punch-drunk because of the time.

"How's Lesath doing? I mean, in general, nothing specific. Pawn to Queen Four, let's just go with a conservative game for now."

"Oh, he's doing fine. I mean, he doesn't really command respect but neither did Colin. Lesath's ... a solid performer. You know how our House is, Lesath's old enough and talented enough that we tolerate him. If Derrick hadn't been hopped up he'd have realized my plan to take out Lestrange would generate more ill will in the real world than any amount of glory I'd gain this weekend. But if he were clever he wouldn't be a bully. Pawn to Queen Bishop Four. _Chop chop! Wake up!_ Lesath's got a good tactical grasp of the situation. He reminds me of Snape, in some ways. Obviously without the experience but he could blossom."

Harry wanted a simple game, since he could feel himself getting tired. He probably shouldn't have agreed to this. "Pawn takes pawn. That's good to hear. I don't think Colin took the coup very well, though. I did what I could to make it better."

"It's just a battle. Do you want me to talk with him? I teach monday's lecture and I could ... _Oh, I teach monday's lecture_! How am I going to have time to prepare? Anyway, I can pull him aside. I mean, we've all been there, losing a battle stings no matter how it happens. Pawn to king four."

The game proceeded. By now Harry and Draco were both good enough to avoid blunders, so each focused on limiting the other's options while accumulating small advantages. Enough small advantages would become a big advantage. A big advantage forced the other player into a defensive position, to answer threats with forced responses. And it was easy to plan, when your opponent's moves were all forced. Until then, the game felt equal.

"Being murdered by a non-traitor on your side who seriously thought he was doing the right thing? That has to hurt."

"Lockhart shouldn't have made everything random. Let the teams pick their leader, or something. And he should have probably limited magical devices," Draco said as the game moved from opening into middle game, "there were a couple of close calls that I'm aware of."

"I think the Headmistress will fix that flaw for next time," said Harry. _If there is a next time_.

* * *

 _Sunday 7.45 am_

The Great Hall, significantly fuller than yesterday, turned as Draco Malfoy strode forcefully into the Hall, Nimbus in hand. Each of his footfalls had an accompanying squish and his brilliant purple robes dripped profusely even though he'd stopped to wring them out. He kept carefully to the purple side of the room - thankfully the unwritten truce had held for another day. The two center tables of red-robed students erupted into laughter.

Apparently the edict against dead people talking didn't apply to laughter. Draco ignored them all as he squished his way to the main table and Professor Lockhart, who had the good taste to have a somber face.

"Professor, since unauthorized spells result in disqualification," Draco said, spreading his arms wide, "I was wondering if I could ask you a favor."

Professor Lockhart took out his wand and wordlessly passed it across Draco's form, at which point the robes instantly dried and even felt pleasantly warm for a change. He leaned down and said, somewhat quietly, "The Hot Air charm has it's uses, but if you live in a jungle for any time you'll want to be more efficient. It's not completely simple, but if you'd like I can show you how to cast that later this week."

"Thank you, Professor," Draco said loudly and walked - footfalls sounding normal - back to the purple table. He put down his broom, took a plate, and some food.

"What happened?" Neville asked. _  
_

Draco finished chewing his piece of grapefruit. It provided a not-unpleasant shock, now that he was dry. "Well, I woke up and Gregory was sprawled out in the middle of our floor, robes red. Harry probably set some guards on the room for when I left, and they must have surprised him, and they didn't bother waking him up. I guess they were afraid that Harry or I had trapped the room."

"And did you?" asked Daphne Greengrass. She wasn't a purple robe, she was neutral, but this was also the Slytherin table. She hadn't done anything overtly biased, but Draco had made sure he could keep her in his field of view.

Draco noticed that the red robes on the next Hufflepuff table were following the conversation intently, but just shrugged. "Nothing extravagant. But anyway, Gregory's broom wasn't out which meant it was still at the bottom of the pool so I managed to get in to there and get through the tunnel and burst out of the water. They had guards, but they were sleeping and I guess they hadn't expected someone to come out of the water. Anyway, I got past them and here I am. What's the situation?"

"I don't think either side is going to eliminate the others leaders by dinner," said Neville. "Both Slytherin leaders are still alive, Katie Bell is still running Purple in Gryffindor, and Roger Davies is running Green in Ravenclaw."

"Davies," said Draco, "I though it was, uh," he paused, blanking on the name, "Hillard. The one who was held back a year?"

"Yeah, Davies overthrew him last night," said Neville. "Word got out after Harry took command from Colin."

"It wasn't like that," said Daphne, "Harry wouldn't do that."

Draco agreed internally, but Daphne's defense of Harry seemed odd. Draco would expect a neutral to be careful when complementing the enemy's leader. Doing that implied complete confidence, and honestly Draco didn't trust everyone at this table who wore purple. How could Daphne be so sure she wasn't executed as a spy? Draco looked up from his grapefruit as the far doors burst open and a dozen greens ran into the room, wands out.

" _Run_ ," Draco yelled and jumped up from the table. He grabbed the broom, tossed it in front of him while saying "Up" and jumped onto it in one smooth motion. (He'd actually practiced that with Gregory during martial arts. It really only saved a second or two from a standing start, but everyone agreed it looked _amazing)._ He flew for the near door and then realized he'd have guarded it before sending in a huge number of visible troops, so he swerved away just before it opened, revealing more green troops. Draco saw Daphne fire a _stupefy_ into Neville's back so he _Somnum_ ed her and she sprawled onto the ground, her robes flickered to green briefly, before turning red. _No wonder she'd been projecting confidence. It was just an act_. Many red robed students sitting in the middle tables raised personal shields, not to affect the battle but just to make sure that they weren't shot by accident.

Draco yelled "We need to," but didn't finish. Several spells impacted on him at once and as he crashed into the Slytherin table, his last thought was _Realism is overrated._

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- it has been pointed out that the Fidelus Charm isn't really HPMOR canon. Lockhart/Harry used the name ("Fidelus") as a descriptive shorthand to indicate "safety." I have updated this chapter accordingly. It was not my intent to divert from canon.


	41. Wargames, Part 6: Casualties of War

_"We do not understand Death, merely endure it." - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

Nobody challenged Draco when he went back to his room. He had to wait for a lull to cross the bridge, but then just walked across. He didn't break step when casting a spell with a flick of his wand to casually slap away the _Somnium_ spell fired blindly over a green barricade. Nobody noticed. The living don't notice the dead during a war. At least, not when busy surviving.

Draco ducked into his room and picked up his letters from the last three days. He opened the first letter, but the screams outside his room ruined his concentration. He packed them all up into his pouch and trudged back across the bridge. The return trip didn't take as long, as the battle roved down inside Slytherin. Draco considered turning around, but who knew when people would come flying through his doorway, spells raging. He headed to the library.

Once there, Draco skipped a rather odd looking letter from Gringotts to open up the latest missive from Robert Jugson. Draco skimmed a brief report of spell research and then slowly read a longer discussion of the problems involved with setting up a muggle company. Draco took out his notebook and made several observations.

"How'd you die?" said Hermione. Draco sat up with a start.

"Have you heard the fable about the Veela and the Howler? Don't sneak up on people like that, Hermione." Draco shuffled his letters back into a semblance of order and dropped his quill on them. "There was a battle at breakfast and I got shot down. I shouldn't have gone, but I was hungry and the truce had held up before. In my defense, we were outnumbered two to one. And ..." Draco's voice just trailed off, and he shrugged.

"I suppose I did well, all things considered. I mean, look at the math. I killed four more people, not even counting my plots. You did well, too. Gregory told me, you had a pretty amazing death and I know you killed at least five. It still gets on my nerves to just get gunned..." Draco's voice suddenly cut out as some shouts erupted from the library stacks behind them and several fourth years ran by in a tangle of purple and green robes. Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled out her _Advanced Potions_ book and started reading. Draco went back to his letter for a few minutes.

"I know what you mean," said Hermione and Draco realized that it had been silent for a minute. "I mean, it didn't hurt dying in any of the battles. Not like it did with Voldemort. Then ... I knew it was real, and it hurt so much and I knew I'd be gone and I thought I'd never be back and that I'd miss it and I was too young. But it was _important_ , and I had to put on a brave face so that Harry didn't ... so he wouldn't blame himself or do anything stupid. I felt horrible, but I didn't have time to be sad or angry. Dying felt too important. In the games it feels trivial."

Draco's memory flashed back to the forest, to the Triffid and it's grinding vines and teeth. He nodded. "Well, it _is_ just a game. And you have to admit it's working. Even without dealing with Voldemort, those of us in the armies," - for some reason Draco couldn't bring himself to just say _soldiers_ \- "are years advanced. The three of us would probably be advanced in any case, but Neville? The Parvatis? Everyone. The armies provide motivation and knowledge, not wisdom. Compared to your death they don't mean anything. Even I feel that way. I couldn't quite put it into words, but since the trial and the events, it's just a motion we go through. Just exciting homework. It's still motivating..."

"Oh I know. We both _hate_ losing too much. But then when it's over we grouse about it for a few minutes."

"And then go to the library," Draco finished.

They sat in silence, Hermione reading and Draco shuffling through his correspondence, writing out letters and answering questions from his solicitor before pulling out his homework and spending some time on that. Another battle came through the library like a whirlwind of shouts and jinxes before disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. After it left, Draco looked up.

"Hermione, you just gave me my next lesson. Can you help me refine it?"

* * *

The first years quieted down as Draco _and Hermione_ walked into class. Normally only a single second year lectured and they'd long since stopped treating Draco or Hermione as anything other than a student outside of halls. _Although they still seem in awe of Harry._ But the sight of two Generals entering the lecture hall got attention. Draco went up to the front and cast a _Sonorus_ while Hermione took a seat.

"There are many stories from the battle, and I could easily take up the full lecture listening and commenting. Some stories are tragedies, like what happened to Mr. Creevey, who died through no fault of his own but the gullibility of a teammate who wasn't nearly as clever as he thought. Some are triumphs, although in war one person's triumph means tragedy for at least five others. Still others are comedies. At least today they are comedies where death is just a temporary setback, so our laughter doesn't feel like a sacrilege. Some are bewildering tales that makes no sense, yet there's a rhythm, a truth. Even though I can't tell what happened."

Draco let his gaze linger on Luna Lovegood for that last one, and she smiled serenely. Professor Lockhart shifted uncomfortably from where he stood at the side of the classroom, leaning against a wall. Draco normally coordinated his lesson plans with Professor Lockhart, but hadn't. Not this time.

"Our battles and wars provide stories. We see winners and losers, and they motivate us. We laugh and gloat, rage and commiserate, scream and comfort. We die and are reborn. And that's something of a problem. Because in real wars and real battles, we won't be reborn. With one notable exception, in any case. Maybe we live in an age of miracles. General Granger is here, and that is a miracle. I have both of my arms, and that is a miracle. When the Triffid ripped my arm off, it didn't hurt at the time. I was too busy staring at it. It mostly hurts at night, now. Mostly. The healers tell me its just nerves. Some say I should talk about it, some say I shouldn't. But this isn't for my therapy."

"Going over the stories from this battle or the last one. They are just stories. We're looking for patterns, for tactics that we can use and strategies that we can use. Because the _stakes are so low_ we fight, and lose, and 'die' and fight again. It's a luxury we have, that people in real wars don't get. Our dead don't smell, don't bloat up in the street. Birds don't peck out the tastiest parts, and insects don't crawl over their bodies. And so while I discuss General Weasley's brilliant tactics in Gryffindor Tower that struck a stunning blow for Green on Saturday morning, many of you will sulk, because Ginevra killed several of you in this room. Then she died several hours later."

"In this classroom we study fighting. But true excellence in warfare pales in comparison to excellence in diplomacy or strategy that would prevent fighting. The Dark Arts are Dark not because of how they work, but because of their casual indifference to the soldiers who end up rotting in the streets. And make no mistake. Those soldiers come from all sides, not just the losers. There is no shame in getting shot out of the sky, there is no shame in dying because of someone else's stupidity, Mr. Creevey, only shame in dying of your own. There is no shame in losing because you have been out-prepared in some obscure area such as underwater broomstick riding, Miss Granger, or when your opponent has spent hours setting a trap. There is no shame in getting double-crossed, Mr. Smith, by someone who'd given you no reason to doubt their loyalty."

Draco saw Professor Lockhart relax, but watching him strangely. Hermione had subtly motioned Draco, she thought he was overdoing it, and he'd seen similar reactions from the students. _They are only first years, after all._ He moved towards his point, although his training in rhetoric told him the roundabout way was better.

"We feel shame because we have the luxury of living. We didn't actually die. So we go over and second guess ourselves, _what if I did this_? _If only I'd noticed that, I should have planned for this._ There are mistakes made, and there are lessons we can learn. But don't look for a lesson in every story. Because here's the truth that General Granger and I believe. Strange things happen in war. You can't predict everything, you can't plan for everything. War is not simple, like Chess, and even there the best that you can do is try to make moves that give you lots of options while at the same time restricting your opponent. A novice chess player may make a move and only then notice that it lets his opponent take his piece. A novice general may get flanked and routed. But once you achieve a basic level of competency, sometimes the battle goes to the person who knows a fact you were never in a position to learn. You may find yourself fighting a Dark Wizard who has read every tome written in Aramaic and there may be a legend there of a spell that disappears your bones, and you may find yourself boneless unable to raise your wand and that will be the last thing you see."

Draco had gone over the rough outline of what he wanted to say with Hermione. She'd suggested he invite Alastor Moody to give this speech, and that idea wasn't without merit. But Draco didn't want to be in the same room with the man. At least, not until he was an _Occlumens_. So he'd told her he could give the speech effectively, without being the walking horrorshow of the damage that could befall a victorious wizard, much less the loser.

"So you may say, 'Well, my fault for not studying hard enough.' But that legend could be written in Chinese. Or Russian. Or Sanskrit. You only have seven years in school, and only so many hours in every day. I hope we fill our lives with more than warfare, no matter how much fun it is."

"Professor Quirrell has ensured that we won't be outflanked. We won't make a rookie mistake, not on a real battlefield, not when it counts. But that doesn't mean we'll survive. And that doesn't mean that every story has a point, in war. So, when you discuss these battles here in the classroom and out there among yourself, I want you to remember that there are three options, not two. Yes, it could be that you were clever. Those stories will get told repeatedly, believe me."

That got a laugh rolling through the lecture hall.

"And maybe you were stupid. In that case give thanks that our wars are fought for nothing more than pride, and learn. But always consider the possibility that battles and wars are complicated, and even if you are clever and skillful, you can't know everything. General Granger could outduel any of you. It wouldn't be fair, or close. Professor Lockhart could easily handle General Granger plus the rest of the room. And he would tell you himself, there are people who could destroy him without breaking stride. If you follow Professor Lockhart into battle and he gets killed that would be devastating but not a huge surprise. It wouldn't make him a failure. It wouldn't make him a failure or a hero."

Draco saw that Hermione was nodding, but her eyes flashed with something akin to pride. He'd wanted to say something about Hermione's death, but she'd told him to not mention that too often. And he wasn't sure he could get through it easily.

"It would just mean he's dead. Adjust what you know, regroup and carry on. Bad things happen in war. Sometimes we assign blame or grant House Points. But often its just a big complicated mess that nobody can predict. So when you hear about some battle, consider the third option: Maybe it was just the normal chaos of war that let you win or got you killed. Please save those stories for outside class."

Draco coughed once.

"Sorry, I took too long making my point, so let's limit our discussion to actual mistakes and actually clever gambits not just retell stories about the Fortunes of War. Let's start with the Battle of Gryffindor Tower. on Saturday. Now, I wasn't there to see it, but I believe General Granger can give us the broad outline..."


	42. Surprise

_Saturday_

High inside Hogwarts a boy with a lightning shaped scar on his forehead sat on his desk, looking out the window across the landscape instead of working.

It wasn't the highest point view from inside the castle. He'd spent a full day last October trying to determine where the castle's highest point was. Finding his effort frustrated at every third turn - literally frustrated by staircases with several non-existent but visible steps that he'd nearly fallen through, and strong gusts of wind that shoved him ruthlessly but harmlessly back down - the boy decided to merely _assume_ that a highest point in Hogwarts existed and gave up trying to find it.

Mathematically, this should be obvious. Every structure had a highest point (or points).

But _this_ boy had encountered enough violations of supposedly axiomatic laws that he wasn't entirely convinced that _two plus two equaled four_ everywhere in the wizarding world, much less Fermat's theorem of stationary points. Harry Potter didn't know exactly how high you could go and still be inside Hogwarts, but he was currently looking down on a flock of geese flying over the Forbidden Forest, fifty feet above the trees to avoid the Acromantula webs.

He'd created a small clearing before sitting on his desk, shoving papers aside. The clutter had grown slowly and haphazardly over the fall. Despite Hogwarts being one of the seats of the wizarding world, most of the clutter consisted of books, not scrolls. His trunks stored the vast majority of Harry's books, but he'd brought the most useful references upstairs to save himself numerous trips and those dominated the scrolls, parchments, official reports that passed from the magical government of Britain to him for review. Already read items were scattered among the ever-increasing number of bookshelves lining his room high above Hogwarts (if they possessed some redeeming value or fact Harry thought he'd need) or tossed unceremoniously into the fire place (if they didn't). Some books on his desk were those that he needed to read quickly, so that he could return them to the library before Madam Pince noticed they were missing.

It was obvious to anyone who paid attention that Harry Potter was not a normal student at Hogwarts. He still preferred not to draw attention to it, so Harry simply took the books he needed then returned them – hopefully unmissed – at a later date. It wasn't really stealing, after all. Headmaster Dumbledore had given him Hogwarts, although part of Harry knew it wasn't Dumbledore's to give. In any case Hogwarts didn't appear to mind. Still, the first time he'd snuck into the restricted section and swiped a few books from the shelves, he'd gotten a small thrill even though he knew that he hadn't broken the wards, they just didn't register his actions as theft. The wards merely shrugged instead of screaming and trapping him in an inky black tar, like they did for regular students.

Try as he might, Harry hadn't convinced Hermione to read any books from the restricted section. She'd said there would be time enough later and that she still had plenty of "good" magic to learn _thank you very much_ and then she'd turned up her nose at him, swiveling her chair around to face the other direction and planting said nose back into the Advanced Potion Making book she was re-reading for the second time.

Harry Potter still wasn't sure if that counted as flirting or not.

Scattered in between his reference books, borrowed books and slowly growing collection of interesting magical artifacts a scroll rested. More specifically, a map. Very specifically, a magical map that accurately drew Hogwarts and its occupants then magically erased and re-draw their updated positions, as well as the ever changing campus itself. People's names appeared next to small footstep icons as they walked, ran, snuck or otherwise moved around campus. Harry had flown a broom around campus while staring at the map, but it still portrayed his motion with little icons that any illustrator would recognize as 'footprints,' despite the fact that he'd been flying and his feet never touched the ground.

The Maurader's Map intrigued Harry. It provided a reasonable and - as far as Harry could tell - true depiction of Hogwarts and its inhabitants. The question that Harry had spent a few percent of his spare time investigating: _How?_

As fields of science went, Information Theory had barely gotten out of diapers. Claude Shannon had figuratively conjured the entire field into existence when he published "The Mathematical Theory of Communication" at the famous Bell Labs shortly after the Second World War. Harry Potter hadn't mastered the maths necessary to fully grasp the work, but he'd read enough commentary to understand the basics of how information worked.

In Harry's brief forays into investigating the intersection between science and magic, only Information Theory had come away unscathed. Some branches of magic respected conservation laws, but generally Magic regarded Science like the boring killjoy you avoided at a party. Sometimes Magic grumbled and said a polite hello but usually Magic ignored Science and did whatever it wanted to.

Magic was Oscar Madison to Science's Felix Ungar.

But Information Theory? So far, Harry hadn't seen any magical violations of its rules.

Magic seemed to have bandwidth that, if not infinite, was big enough to not matter as a practical concern. In any case, divination didn't use much bandwidth, most spells didn't seem to use much. Transfiguration probably used the most, but estimating how much was a tricky matter. Magic had relatively good signal strength. But there was no reason – in theory – that communication channels had to be noisy. (Harry had posited that Divination's relatively useless nature was somehow encrypting information in a way to prevent noise from affecting it, unlike the rest of magic. But he had no way to test this). In any case Technology had made impressive gains on reducing noise, so magic's signal strength was not a theoretical concern.

If information theory failed, Harry suspected it would by violating the restriction on moving faster than light. Given the existence of time turners there were probably some modifications to Shannon's theory, and the possibility of sending information faster than light would be of pressing importance, once humanity spread to multiple planets. Harry hoped that magic violated that rule, it would be useful. But so far this one branch of science had avoided Magic's lecherous advances and sly come-ons. It remained pure, unbroken by magic.

That surprised Harry, but _Information implies Surprise_. After all, if someone told you a fact that didn't surprise you at all, you already knew it.

Part of the proof that English has redundancy built into it was that if you named the letters of a plaintext message one at a time, people could guess the next letter much more often than random chance dictated. Similarly with the words. If you asked any American to say the next word in the phrase ' _The President of the United'_ then most would say ' _States_.'

"States" wouldn't surprise them. " _Auto_ " would be surprising, except at a union rally.

As far as Harry could tell, the Marauder's Map had been the rare surprise for Voldemort during his year at Hogwarts. Not only had he not known of its existence, he'd been doubly surprised that the map printed 'Tom Riddle' for him. It hadn't shown Harry's legal name, or the name given him by his parents, or the name he called himself. It somehow knew that he was an imprint of Tom Riddle.

That was a disturbingly compelling argument for the concept of souls. Not as a religious concept but as an actual mental state, albeit only an initial state. For the time being, Harry had shoved aside the more complex philosophical questions and focused on what other information the Map could convey. It could be a profoundly useful security device. The map could detect invisible intruders – Alastor had tried a number of spells, but he showed up on the map at all times. Hermione disappeared when hidden under her Deathly Hallow, but otherwise people were clearly labeled. Harry had also wondered if the Map – which recognized Harry's origins before he had – could tell if someone was under an external influence. However, experimentation had shown that _imperiused_ subjects were labelled as themselves, not their controller.

Harry had felt a twinge of guilt, having Minerva confiscate the Map from the Twins, although he'd at least made sure their memories were restored. But he needed to experiment with it. He'd have it 'accidentally' returned later. Even with its limitations, the Map could revolutionize security. Once Harry figured out how to replicate it, anyway.

Harry built Peverell adjacent to Hogwarts, connected at the infirmary, but it was not part of Hogwarts proper, which meant it didn't show up on the Map. Harry had wanted them separate for logistical reasons and to keep people from asking too many questions – which was another reason he'd reluctantly asked the Headmistress to confiscate the Map – but once Harry understood this device that could detect invisible intruders he'd announced that Peverell was part of Hogwarts. Then he'd decreed it. Then he'd had a law passed to that effect.

The Map didn't care, or show any of the new addition. Whatever logic it used to decide what to show, the map didn't seem influenced by politics or what people said. It didn't matter that Harry Potter felt like Harry Potter, to the map he was Tom Riddle. It didn't care that Harry called Peverell part of Hogwarts.

Harry's experiments – and thousands of galleons to pay wizarding craftsmen – had let him develop 'his' map he used for the Muggle Naval Simulation. The displaying was the easy part. He'd just gotten some computer programs to run the simulation (using thousands of dollars to pay programmers) and his map reflected the reality of the program.

But _that_ information existed on a concrete level – on a computer monitor, or in the hard drive. Sure, the Marauder's map looked at people on the grounds. But how did it see into him? How did it see the invisible? Was it the same way that the Sorting Hat worked? Harry didn't expect an answer soon.

Good research – by definition – was full of surprises.

At this moment Harry idly studied the Great Hall. It was lunch time, which meant that most of the students were in the great hall. The sheer number of names meant that the map couldn't show them all. Rather, it could, but they'd fill up the entire Hallway with ink, so the Map didn't. Harry wondered how it decided. Did it have some intelligence, like the Hat? If so, who did it borrow it from? Or did it just work on simple rules. You could get surprisingly subtle and complex behavior from a few simple rules.

Harry had been tinkering with the map most of the morning. He was _supposed_ to be dealing with the Wizengamot and the political fallout that was starting to happen because people weren't dying as much as they used to. Other countries were becoming concerned about their political power in this suddenly changed world. Harry wished that he'd gotten Hari Seldon when he'd recruited Professor Asimov. Figuring out the future history was beyond him, beyond anyone. So he was just muddling along, trying to smooth things out.

He'd taken a break to play with the map because he was bored and procrastinating. He'd almost resolved to get back to looking at the correspondence that had come from Casciora, a parliament of Romanian Witches, when something struck him. The students had been filing out of the Great Hall, which now was almost empty. He'd seen them streaming out through various doors, names appearing once they were far enough apart that they could be distinguished. Harry had spent the morning tracking people around, trying to think of clever security tricks or how he'd hide from the Map, if he suspected someone was watching him. If he could do that, he could return it sooner. But as he'd been thinking about this, something about the lunchtime crowd struck him. Harry pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Show me my room," Harry said. And the scene shifted, scrolling smoothly, and Harry saw his room, empty. Lesath was walking through the Slytherin Commons room by himself, apparently heading back to his room. Harry glanced at the clock on the wall, it was a bit after 1pm. There was a Quiddich game scheduled, Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff.

"Show me the bleachers, Slytherin seating." Harry examined the names quickly, then shifted over to the Hufflepuff stands, just in case. Lots of people, but not who he was hunting.

"Show me the library," Harry said. Hermione was there, of course. Her unmoving name was scrawled elegantly next to her favorite table. Madam Pince and a few students, mostly fifth years, walked around the stacks. Harry studied the map for another second.

"Fine," Harry said, more to himself than the map. "Show me Draco Malfoy."

The map erased itself, just a blank piece of parchment.

"Huh," Harry said to himself, surprised.

* * *

 _A few minutes earlier._

A man, hair tangled in thick curls, with mutton chop sideburns steps up into the carriage, almost tripping because he cannot keep his eyes on the small step of the entrance, but is looking towards the front, at the horrific beasts tethered to the carriage that only he can see.

Draco turned his head from the window he'd been staring out of, at the front of Hogwarts and gives a slight nod to the man. "Thank you again for this, Isaac. I know it's an imposition on your day off, and I appreciate it."

"It's no trouble at all, Draco. Frankly I welcome the chance to get out and about. It's not that anyone is rude, or impolite. But I really feel like a movie shooting victim when I'm on that campus." Professor Asimov laughed and Draco realized there was probably some joke.

"I'm afraid I don't get it," Draco said. With other people he'd force a wan smile or just nod, but given the cultural differences Draco considered it better to just admit ignorance and learn from it. _In this situation at least_. The carriage gave a small jostle as it started off.

"Ah, a fake gunshot in movies is done with a packet of fake blood and a small explosive, referred to as a 'squib.'"

"That's actually clever," Draco said, smiling.

"Unlike the rest of my jokes, you mean?" Professor Asimov had an artificially dour look on his face.

"Exactly." They both laughed.

"Tell me, Draco, what are the beasts that are pulling this carriage?"

"What animals?" Draco said.

"They look like … two skeletal pegasus."

"Pegasus...," Draco screwed up his face, thinking. "That's a breed of winged horse, isn't it? And skeletal." Draco reached into his robes and pulled out a small black notebook, opened it, then spoke to it. "Reminder for later, research skeletal winged horses that children cannot see." The words appeared in an elegant handwriting. Draco closed the book and slipped it back into his robes.

"Quite a useful device," Professor Asimov said.

"More convenient than a scroll, but basically the same idea as a Self Writing Quill, except the spell is on the book, not the writing instrument. I'll look this up later and see what I find, although I suspect you could just ask the groundskeeper."

Draco did look up Thestrals later, his diary sketching a horrifying image. The fact this his research would take no longer than a minute was something he felt slightly guilty about, but he gave no outward sign of discomfort.

"I hope it's not much trouble but, thank you Draco. Much like this trip, which you view as a burden to me, but I'm actually happy to get out and about, and some slight errands along the way pose no real issue. I do have something for you." He handed a slim paperback book to Draco, who flipped it over.

"Nine Tomorrows," he read. _By Isaac Asimov._

"I particularly recommend Gentle Vultures to you. Your speech to Gilderoy's class after that last war reminded me of the story. Not the writing or plot, but the general moral nature."

"You heard about the speech?"

"Professors Lockhart and Slughorn discussed it at some length, and in some detail. Professor Lockhart, in particular, seemed impressed with your insight and said that it showed surprising moral development."

Professor Asimov smiled as they passed underneath the gate to the entrance of Hogwarts.

* * *

 _Six days earlier._

Professor Asimov took one bite of Dragon Tartare and made a face. Gilderoy was still speaking "... it was gripping, as you'd expect from a Malfoy, but what astonished me was that he showed surprising moral development for a Slytherin."

"What do you mean ' _for a Slytherin_?'" Horace dropped his fork and leaned over, practically placing his chest onto the table. That got the attention of the entire head table, most of whom had been ignoring yet another speech by the Professor of _Offenses against the Social Arts_ , as Professor Trewlaney dubbed him.

"Well, its just that you don't often hear about the glories of protecting the innocent and tales for the fallen from Slytherin. I mean, a speech about the nobility of those who died in war seems right for Hufflepuff."

At this moment Pomona Spout tossed her fork down on the table, which clattered loudly against her plate. "Oh, so we're victims, not like the heroic Gryffindors," she said. Professor Lockhart's smile wavered for a second, and he was about to speak when the Headmistress gently set down her spoon.

"I'm sure he didn't mean it that way, _Did you?_ " Headmistress McGonagall cocked her head gently towards Professor Lockhart.

"No, of course not. What I _meant_ to say. That is, the idea that good and noble soldiers die all the time is a common theme that applies to everyone. And since the outcome of the battle doesn't affect the moral nature of the combatant. Well, those facts seems like just the sort of thing that Helga Hufflepuff would agree with." Pomona sniffed dismissively, while he continued. "And while I don't think that Rowena Ravenclaw would dispute the fact that being clever in war is no guarantee of survival, I don't recall her ever saying anything to that effect."

Gilderoy Lockhart kept talking before anyone could interrupt, because he couldn't actually recall _anything_ that Rowena Ravenclaw had ever said, and didn't want to learn at this time. In fact, he'd somewhat lost the train of thought as to why he was defending himself. After another sentence or two he remembered.

"And I'm sure that Salazar also knew what Draco said, but he didn't really emphasize it. Whereas Gryffindors have more history with heroic failure than most, because we tend to leap before we look. We don't have to dig deeply into our history to see our heroes die fairly often. Oh, we sing about the winners more than remember the losers, but the lesson is there. That's all I that I meant. Do you see what I'm saying, Horace?"

"I see you have no idea what you are talking about. You carry your simplistic view of the world and forsake nuance. Do you want to know the burden of House Slytherin? Well, I'll tell you anyway, not to enlighten you but because you deserve to shoulder the weight. We know that the dead who rot in the streets may not have been innocent, we know that you cannot reduce people to songs you sing about them when you get drunk. We know the world isn't black and white, but merely shades of grey."

"You call me a fool for seeing only two colours, then reduce it to one!" The headmistress started to speak, but Horace jabbed his pudgy finger into the puffy finery worn by Gilderoy Lockhart and poked him twice while speaking.

"Not one, _infinite_. You blame us for the last two decades because you are ignorant. Slytherin is the house that traditionally stops most wars. We murder them when they are babies, strangle them in their cribs or snap their beautiful necks and then go off to console their parents. Sometimes we fail, then we fight them when they are fully grown. We prefer to murder their pregnant mothers, no matter how pretty the young woman may be. And we don't go marching off with some foolish bird on our shoulder singing to us. We make hard choices, because we understand. _Albus_ understood. He ordered people to die and did it knowingly, and it almost destroyed him. Could you do that? No, you'd just rush in yourself and fight for glory and die whether it won the war or not. Would you let Albus order you to your death? Of course you would, because you'd never imagine anything but victory and it wouldn't be prudent for Dumbledore to mention otherwise. No, the curse of my house is that we know that _you_ cannot deal with the world you actually live in, so you tell yourself lies."

Professor Horace Slughorn shoved back from the table so violently that his chair topped over. Several students saw that, and saw his face red with rage even though no raised voices could be heard.

"Your problem, Gilderoy, is that you've only learned from your own experience. Enough to be here, but you only know Slytherins from your past. And it isn't pretty, I'll grant you. It's dark. But due to your nature you'll be outclassed by our students soon enough, because they learn from other people's mistakes. That's why you can't conceive that Draco Malfoy has learned the wisdom of war without having ever been in a real battle, because you've never learned anything by thinking and you can't imagine we Slytherins do."

As Horace Slughorn stormed away, meal uneaten, it occurred to Gilderoy Lockhart that he'd never seen a Slytherin get truly angry before.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- If you haven't left a review on , please consider it. I'm getting paid in ego.


	43. Pressure

Harrod Xavier Realgar sat at his post in the Ministry of Magic, humming happily to himself. The Ministry was practically deserted, as you'd expect on a Saturday, so he could actually get work done instead of simply running errands for the Assistant to the Undersecretary. Esmeralda Beery-Malbolges - said Assistant to the aforementioned Undersecretary - took perverse delight in ordering Harrod around during the week so he inevitably fell behind in his work. He'd volunteered to work Tuesdays through Saturdays, which not only earned him praise – and a fifteen percent shift differential! – but provided one sane day without other bureaucrats pestering him for minutia.

Harrod didn't think of _himself_ as a bureaucrat, no! Harrod Xavier Realgar was a dedicated civil servant. When he'd been at Hogwarts (it seemed so long ago) even his fellow Hufflepuffs had commended his work ethic and his almost five years at the Ministry hadn't damped his spirit. He worked hard. Tasks placed in front of Harrod were more tedious than unpleasant, and it was for the betterment of society. And with the recent changes there were opening for promotions and he fully intended to grab one.

Harrod had been filling out the appropriate paperwork to allow for the import of several hundred Romanian Ivory-Plumed Chickens for the Haruspectors when he heard footsteps echoing down the hallway in front of the reception desk. During the week Harrod sat at his own desk, but when they were short-staffed, such as today, clerks worked in the hallways so that they could guide visitors. And also ensure that visitors didn't stray outside of the public areas.

A man in ill fitting robes, with wild hair and mutton chop sideburns that marked him as either a powerful Scottish wizard or doddering fool walked along side an immaculately dressed boy with slicked back blond hair. Harrod smiled as they walked up to the reception desk, carefully setting his paperwork aside, and said "Good morning" quite cheerfully to the pair.

To his surprise, it was not the man who answered, but the boy.

"Good morning to you, as well. This is Professor Isaac Asimov of Hogwarts, and I am Draco Malfoy. I'm not entirely sure, but I believe that our appointment is just down this hallway, can you let them know that we are coming?"

The boy had pointed to a room slightly down to the right of the hall, a non-public area. And at no point had he stopped walking. During his speech he'd made a small bow of introduction, but continued steadily toward the door. He gave no indication of stopping. The man next to him had stopped at the desk, but then quickly started after the boy. The boy's actions startled Harrod so much that he answered before the name sank in.

" _Excuse me_! Ah, pardon me Mr. Malfoy," now that the name had sunk in Harrod stood up from the desk. "I don't know exactly who you are meeting."

"I wish to be escorted to the Hall of Prophecy. It's past that door, I believe."

Harrod blanched inside, but didn't show it. He'd heard of the Hall of Prophecy, everyone had _heard_ of it. During his first week he'd been sent to get a left handed wand, had to clean out Boggart cages, and been ordered to the Hall of Prophecy. All standard practice, hazing the new guy. Everyone gave him different directions and he'd never been let in. Visitors _were not allowed_ in the Hall of Prophecy.

Perhaps they had been, once, centuries ago. Outsiders weren't even supposed to know it existed. Harrod knew about the Hall, every clerk knew that Merlin had built the Halls somewhere in the Ministry. But where? Well it must be in a restricted area and clerks with less than a decade's experience did not travel in restricted areas or ask about them. At least, not if they wanted to stay employed.

"Who did you say you are meeting again, Mr. Malfoy? We don't get many requests for that, and I'm not exactly sure what to do, if you'll forgive me."

"I'm not exactly sure how things are organized, now that Amelia Bones is running things. The Hall of Prophecy should be under the jurisdiction of the Secretary of Divination, Scrying and Prediction. Secretary Etain Levalsior."

This time Harrod blanched on the outside. He'd expected the boy to name Esmeralda, or some equivalent clerk. Maybe the Undersecretary herself. Because Esmeralda bossed him around, he'd gotten some face time with Undersecretary Laurensdotter, Technically she was five levels above him, in the Ministry's Organizational chart. The boy had named the Undersecretary's boss. The man shifted his feet but smiled broadly, and seemed genuinely interested in the conversation, but hadn't said a word.

"I don't know if I should bother Secretary Levalsior," Harrod said.

"Nor would I expect you to," Draco replied. "The Hall of Prophecy is open to anyone. Merlin himself established it so that anyone who wishes can listen to a prophecy about them. Some busybodies have restricted access in recent years. You undoubtedly learned that from Professor Binns when you were at Hogwarts. I'd expect that most Gryffindors would have forgotten, but a Hufflepuff like yourself wouldn't forget."

"I haven't, of course," Harrod replied. He didn't _exactly_ remember that lecture, nobody remembered much from Professor Binns. It did sound vaguely familiar. He wondered how the boy knew he was a Hufflepuff, as he'd long ago given up the childish habit of wearing house colours, then glanced down and saw that he'd put his nameplate on the desk, since he was working reception. Members of Noble Houses knew people at the top of the organizational chart, not at the bottom. He looked back up and saw the boy's piercing grey eyes had never left his direction.

"I happen to know that even when it was officially closed it was still open to people in good standing who had valid concerns. I assume there are procedures in place. I don't expect you to contact the Undersecretary, merely follow protocol. No need to involve anyone in this at all, beyond the escorts and security. Whatever else is normally required. You _do_ know protocol?"

"It's never come up," said Harrod.

However, there _was_ a protocol for answering unexpected requests and Harrod knew that one backwards and forwards. "But I can look it up quickly, one moment." He dove behind the desk and found a large tome, not bound in leather but in wood, a soft wood that reminded Harrod of days he'd spent outdoors, especially during his summer vacations. The man and boy talked quietly amongst themselves, idle chit chat about something called _Movings_ , and Harrod whispered "Protocol for Visiting the Hall of Prophecy" and the book flung itself open, pages hissing and howling like an angry cat fighting its bath, then there was silence as Harrod read:

 _Protocol for people requesting to visit the Hall of Prophecy_

 _Revision 10, effective July 1, 1992._

 _Get rid of visitors using any excuse necessary, then file a confidential report directly with the current Secretary of D,S & P. _

Harrod looked at the book, then realized he didn't have any idea how to get rid of these visitors. Any excuse would sound like ... well, an excuse. And he'd just admitted to not knowing about the Hall of Prophecy. "Show me revision 9, please." He looked up at Draco, made a shrugging motion and the boy nodded and continued his conversation about an exciting battle about a whip-wielding Wizard trying to recover a strange artifact. Harrod scanned Revision 9 - dated 1871 - which had a much more convoluted process, almost all of which resulted in the same outcome as Revision 10, but left a slight hint at entrance.

That would do quite nicely.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy. Unfortunately parental approval is required for minors. Professor ... I'm sorry what was it?"

"Asimov," said the old man, a bemused smile on his face.

"Asimov, right. As Professor Asimov is not your parent, I cannot let you in."

"Quite reasonable," said the boy. He made no move to leave and instead reached inside his cloak and pulled out a mirror. Harrod had seen Aurors using that model and he smiled as the boy held it up to his face and chatted into it. He then walked back to the reception desk, the first step he'd made away from the door, and his shoes echoed across the hard marble floor. He held out the mirror so that Harrod could see it.

"Good morning, this is Lady Narcissa Malfoy." The woman in the mirror smiled elegantly, her long blond hair draped across her shoulder. The family resemblance would be obvious even if he didn't recognize her from the articles last summer in the Daily Prophet. Despite her age she still looked more enticing than the clerk from Amulet Inspection that Harrod had been meaning to ask out. _It would be easier to date if I didn't work Saturdays_.

"Lady Malfoy. I am Harrod Xavier Realgar, clerk of..."

"Herbert Beery's Grandson?" she interrupted sweetly.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy, and as I was saying," he started but she interrupted again.

"Well, then you know who I am and this simplifies things. I _of course_ grant you permission to escort my son Draco Malfoy of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy" and at this she rolled her hands to signify that she was dropping the rest of the tedious formalities, "to go listen to any and all prophecies concerning him in the Hall of Prophecy. There."

Draco turned the Mirror to face him, and said "Thank you, Mother. Although...," he peered over the mirror and spoke to both of them. "It occurs to me that someone may not believe you did this. We can hardly expect people to accept you word for so formal a matter over a mirror. Bureaucracy likes paperwork. Shall I have a formal letter sent? It wouldn't take but a moment."

The last was addressed to Harrod.

"No, that won't be necessary, I consider the parental release satisfied," said Harrod. Draco put away his mirror while Harrod read further down the list. "Ah, I'll also need approval from a member of the Wizengamot." He smiled apologetically. Not because of the protocol, but because of his deception. Harrod felt guilty stringing along the boy, who had been so polite.

"Do you really wish me to disturb the Lady Malfoy again?" said Draco Malfoy, reaching back into his cloak.

"Ah, no, of course not. I'm sorry, I should have been clearer. The visit must be _seconded_ by another member of the Wizengamot. Technically the Lady Malfoy made the request for you, so she could not second it."

"Honestly, I don't remember any of that from the class, but I suppose they don't mention all the details _you_ have to keep up with. And, if I'm being honest, I fall asleep in Professor Binn's class fairly often. He's not interesting, like Professor Asimov. But that does seem like the sort of thing they'd require, I mean who can forget the rulings of the third session of the one-hundred-ninety-ninth Wizengamot reforming Auror Interrogations?"

During this speech the boy had walked back halfway towards the door and taken out his wand, which set of a minor panic although that was silly. _No twelve year old boy would attack someone in the Ministry of Magic, that would be foolhardy_. Draco Malfoy made no move towards Harrod, he'd been talking to him at an angle, and he lowered his stance slightly and moved his wand with precise whipping motions and Harrod - who didn't know the one-hundred and ninety-ninth Wizengamot from the whatever number they were currently on - did know a bit about Auror Interrogations. He'd gone through one as part of his hiring and that boy hadn't just been spouting gibberish: Auror interrogations could be overruled - or at least delayed - by members in good standing, as long as you had a second and a Harrod felt a nervous dread. This boy, barely half his age, had a casual command of facts he shouldn't know. But once Draco started his spell Harrod's nervousness transformed to surprise. _He can't possibly be..._

And then Draco Malfoy cast _"Expecto Patronum!"  
_

A silvery snake – Harrod wasn't sure of the type, but it looked large and hungry – floated just above the ground in front of Draco, and Professor What's-his-name took a keen interest in it, too. He'd seemed surprised, and taken a shuffle step backwards before recovering.

"Please go to Augusta Longbottom, give her my respects, and kindly request her to join me in the Ministry of Magic. She should still be in Diagon Alley, where we met at that small gypsy bistro. She should be finishing up with lunch shortly, but if she is still eating she should by all means finish."

The snake nodded sharply and slithered away at astonishing speed. Draco put his wand back.

"What are the other requirements, Mr. Realgar?" Draco had pronounced his name correctly, Ree-Owl-Gahr. Most people got it wrong on the first time. "It occurs to me that we have ten minutes or so before the message reaches Lady Longbottom, and it might be another thirty minutes. It would save considerable time if you would kindly enumerate all the requirements now."

"Uh, Mr. Malfoy," Harrod said.

" _Lord_." The voice was still high, a boy's voice, not a mans. Draco hadn't dropped it into a false bass voice, like children sometimes did. The voice was no colder than before. There was no acting in it, no drama. But the word hung out there. Harrod cast his glance to the Professor, and the man was looking at both of them in open bewilderment. Harrod could press the point. Draco Malfoy was not technically of age and while some students had achieved their majority by appearing before the Wizengamot over the summer, he had not.

Harrod did not feel inclined to press the point.

"Lord Malfoy, I'm afraid there are _extensive_ requirements."

"Understandable. You must follow protocol and I hardly blame you for that. Exactly how many requirements? If you would let me peruse them that would save time."

"I'm afraid that's against policy."

"Then please just enumerate them, it may be that I've forgotten something although I think you'll find I'm reasonably well informed about this. But if I did forget something, I'd like to know so that when I come back I possess a full and accurate list of what is required. It seems foolish to not simply show me the list, since I'll have to fulfill all of these requirements in any case. I can read it and let you do some useful work in the meantime. I have plenty of time, and your shift doesn't end for five hours."

Harrod's mouth felt dry, and he cast around his desk for his glass of water and took a sip.

"If I can ask, what's so important? Why do you need to go into the Hall of Prophecy?"

Harrod could see Draco considering it. He'd have never asked under regular circumstances. Harrod worried that something in his demeanor revealed that he was grasping at straws. He took another sip of water to hide his nervousness, and the Professor tilted his head. Now that Harrod thought about it, the entire setup was odd. What was a young student doing out of Hogwarts during term? _How had he managed that?_ And trying to be the first outsider to go to the Hall in centuries ( _Was he the first?_ The protocol existed, and if any family could bend the rules and get access, a Noble and Most Ancient House certainly could). If Harrod could just slip away he'd send out queries or call in a senior clerk and make this someone else's problem, but he dare not leave. While thinking, he considered the Professor. The man must be the new Professor of Muggle Studies, everyone knew Gilderoy Lockhart and this man clearly wasn't him. Why did a Slytherin, and a Malfoy at that, associate with him?

 _And since when could a Slytherin summon a Patronus?_ Harrod gulped his water. Lord Draco Malfoy apparently made up his mind and strode back to the reception desk, his right hand held up in a fist. No, not quite a fist, his hand was slightly open, at shoulder height like a salute and spoke firmly, in a commanding tone:

 _"Sigil Prodi!"_

And a cane appeared in his hand, a silver snake head peering over the top of Draco Malfoy's grasping fist.

"Mr. Harrod Xavier Realgar, _this_ is the cane of Lucius Malfoy, son of Abraxis Lords of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy and even if you didn't recognize me I can tell by your eyes you certainly recognize _it_. I shouldn't be holding it. This Sigil should not answer my commands _but it does_ because Voldemort murdered Lucius Malfoy last summer, and now I am Lord Malfoy. I was almost murdered last spring by Voldemort or one of his agents."

Harrod's eyes followed the head of the cane that Draco Malfoy had been slowly lowering to the ground, moving it gently into position as if it were not some relic of power, but just a normal walking stick. Harrod would later swear to everyone who would listen that the cane's eyes followed his and that they narrowed slightly, with growing anger, as Malfoy spoke. The dread that Harrod Xavier Realgar felt in his stomach increased as the meaning of the words and righteous indignation of the tone made Harrod draw into himself.

"And I know that there was a Prophecy about Voldemort's return, because I heard a part of it before Headmaster Albus Dumbledore prevented the student body from hearing the rest. The Wizengamot may have quietly ignored the Ministry's blatant violations of our laws for centuries, but it ends now. I am allowed to hear the full prophecy regarding the monster that tried to destroy my family. I am allowed into the Hall of Prophecy by the laws and traditions of Wizarding England set forth by Merlin himself and I will not be denied."

 _I'm the villain,_ Harrod thought. He could no longer meet Draco's gaze, which had never wavered from Harrod's eyes. He looked at the floor then saw Draco glance towards the soft footfalls, like a rustling cat.

Draco looked back to Harrod and said, softly. " _And I am not alone_. Ah, Madam Longbottom," Draco's tone shifted back to the pleasant boy he'd been a moment ago as he turned turning towards a witch who looked like she still belonged in Hogwarts herself, "I do apologize, but I require a second, or perhaps a witness, in order to comply with all these regulations."


	44. Release

_Delay is the strongest form of Denial - Lucius Malfoy_

* * *

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Professor." Draco slid easily into the opposite chair of the Leaky Cauldron, then caught the eye of the barmaid that Isaac had been flirting with for the last half hour. _To some avail_ , Isaac thought, and chuckled. Then the chair next to him skidded noisily and Augusta Longbottom dropped into the chair, loudly dropping a purse that could hold a medium sized cauldron onto the table.

"You know, there's something to this entire rejuvenation business. I would never have been able to deal with that arrogant snit's pleasant demeanor last year. I'd be too tired, and he'd be too respectful, ' _Madam Longbottom, why don't you sit down?_ ' and ' _Can I get you any tea?_ ' But now that I'm young, they just sneer and look down at me. And they _underestimate_ me, isn't that delightful, Draco? Enjoy that while you can. It shan't last long."

The waitress Arianna came to the table, not as friendly as she had been a few moments ago. "I shall get simply plastered with all the wine you've got, dear," said Augusta.

Arianna looked dubious, and Draco ordered a butterbeer.

"No problem at all. Augusta dropped me off here and I've explored Diagon Alley all afternoon. I'd just ordered my dinner. So, your mission was a success?"

"They didn't let me in, if that's what you are asking. But yes, I think it was a success." Augusta stopped fidgeting to fix Draco with a look, which spared Isaac the problem of asking for clarification. "It was just a hunch. I don't _know_ that there would be something important in the Hall of Prophecy, but I had a ... feeling. It may be important, Originally I just wanted to rule it out. But they are so obstinate about hiding something, they brought out the big guns to stop me."

"The clerk?" Isaac laughed. "That boy looked absolutely petrified. You can't mean him."

"No. They just kept stringing me along. He'd never define all the steps he had to fulfill. He just set up an obstacle, and when I passed it, he set up the next one. Always apologetic. 'I'm very s-s-s-sorry, Lord Malfoy' and 'Well, there is this other regulation, you see.' Why, if I didn't have to run by my vault for some business – thank you again Madam Longbottom for that. You didn't really need to stay for the whole day."

 _Delay is the strongest form of denial._ Father taught that lesson yearly. If you told someone 'no,' they'd act against you. But if you could drag out the decision you may be able to placate them. Or they'd just lose interest or hope or find some other more pliable target. Sometimes they'd even just forget. You could eventually impose enough cost to make your adversary drop the matter. Father had also taught him the dangers, if you were ever uncovered.

Draco had been on the other side today.

 _And now you see just how dangerous it is to play that game,_ Draco heard in Lucius voice. _They've confirmed your idle hunch, and even now you are planning to act. Not impetuously, I hope?_

"You don't need to convince me that it's important, Draco. I want to make sure we are fully quit with that foul would-be-imperator. Voldemort, not the clerk." Her words had a harsh quality, and to Isaac could just imagine that Augusta Longbottom was secretly all three Greek Furies. She'd just changed from the Atropos - the crone that kills - into Clotho, who spins the web into life. But just as soon as she finished her words, practically spitting, she smiled and was a young lady again.

It was an odd effect, but Isaac had started to get used to it. Arianna came back with the drinks and Augusta took her wine glass, drained it in one motion, set it back on the serving tray, and leaned over to him and said "And what did you do today, _hmmm?_ " she said, batting her eyes at him.

* * *

Headmistress McGonagall pulled her head out of the Pensieve and sat thinking for several moments.

Amelia Bones, hair brown with streaks of grey since her youthening last summer, had been sitting at her desk, quill scritching out memoranda, not wasting any time. She didn't look up as Minerva finished the memory, just kept writing. How Albus Dumbledore had done anything as Chief Warlock while also managing Hogwarts was beyond her. _Actually, everyone felt either so afraid of him they didn't interfere, or so inspired by him that they did all the work he didn't have time for,_ she thought. _But I inspire little fear or loyalty_. She kept writing.

"Well, now I know why he gave up his cane so easily. He could summon it back at any time," Minerva's voice sounded resigned.

"The memory goes on for several more hours. Madam Longbottom comes back soon after that. She only left to be polite to your Professor and take him to Diagon Alley. We sent Aurors to confirm that. She returned quickly, along with Xenophilius Lovegood and the Lady Greengrass. Honestly if that boy had any idea where the Hall of Prophecy was, he'd have marched them straight to it by the end."

"Poor Harrod," said Minerva, "Always so eager to please. This must have been terribly trying for him."

"Well, Draco didn't berate him. If _I'd_ gotten the run-around all day my temper would flair." Amelie Bones dipped her quill in the inkwell, flipped over to the next scroll, and scribbled corrections on the wording, then set down her quill. "You need to control your people, Minerva."

"Professor Asimov had no idea what he was doing. A student asked him a convenient favor and he agreed. Frankly, I got stir crazy my first year here, and I'm not a squib, but..."

"Not him. I meant Malfoy. And Potter."

"Harry Potter," said Minerva, pausing. "I'm not in a position to order him around, and neither are you Amelia. I should think that after all you've seen..."

"I've seen plenty. He doesn't need to be ordered around. He needs to be _controlled_. Gently. Persuasively. I'm not sure how Albus managed him, but figure it out. We're in a precarious enough situation as it stands right now. Voldemort killed all the right people - thank Merlin for small favors - and that bought us months of time. But I ... no, not just me. _We_ can't have this."

Minerva pursed her lips. "What exactly can't we have, Amelia?"

"We can't have it come out that Albus ransacked the Hall of Prophecy. We're in a tenuous situation, and if people lose confidence... They'd think Albus mad. _Madder_ than they thought him. We need normalcy for years or maybe even a decade, before Harry can officially assume his position. Albus is only looked on favorably because he's a martyr. Imagine how they'll react if they knew. Or how they'll react when they discover he made that child Chief Warlock. Potter's plans..."

"Seem to be proceeding quite well," Minerva sniffed.

"Because they aren't _his_ , as far as the public is concerned." The Chief Warlock got up and sat on her desk, looking slightly down at the Headmistress of Hogwarts. "Minerva, you know me. I'm not a politician. I never wanted to be. I didn't want this job and nothing would make me happier than running the DMLE. But you don't get to be head of any department, even DMLE, by ignoring politics. Young Malfoy stirred up a hornet's nest, and he did it well. If he'd been some foolish Gryffindor and charged into the Ministry firing spells, or even just snuck in we could write this off. But what he did ... Even Lucius couldn't have pulled this off, nobody would trust him. Draco doesn't have his father's baggage. Just like Albus, he's a martyr, but a living breathing one who never raved on about the mystical properties of licorice during a three day session of the Wizengamot. Draco almost died then renounced vengeance against House Potter. He practically owns the Prophet, the Quibbler is with him on this and he's been courting key votes. Imagine how this will play out!"

"Voldemort's dead, and I don't think..."

"He's already come back once. Even if _we_ know it won't happen again, the public doesn't. Best case, we spin it that Voldemort destroyed the Hall of Prophecy, although that doesn't make us look good either and the timeline may not withstand scrutiny. I'm not sure which Unspeakables know the truth, but I suspect several do. Imagine if it comes out. Then people start to ask the question – what was Dumbledore hiding?"

"You give too little credit to people," said Minerva.

"The same people that voted to send Hermione Granger to Azkaban?" asked the Chief Warlock, cocking her head.

* * *

Hermione heard Draco walking through the stacks a few seconds before he sat down at her table. The disturbing part was that she wasn't actually sure how she knew it was Draco. _Maybe I recognized his pace, he does stride around_.

"Hi Draco. How are you?" she asked, smiling at him.

"Well, thank you." He shifted in his seat for a second as Hermione closed the book she was reading, and Draco read off the title. " _The Structure of Scientific Revolutions._ Is it interesting?"

"Not really. I'd rather be studying potions, but that's my reward for finishing this."

Draco just let out a laugh, a real one, relaxed. He didn't even seem worried as Madam Pince glared at him, barely two aisles away. "Well, we all have so much to do. But I can offer you something much more interesting to do."

"And what's that?"

"Research. Can Xare transport you any place you want?"

"Trying to break into Peverell? I'm sorry Draco. I don't have time for that. But I imagine so, she's taken me everywhere else. They don't really have a defense against it, except that Xare wouldn't take anyone who wanted to steal the chalice."

"No, not Peverell." Draco leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially. "There's a room underneath the Ministry of Magic. According to legend its lit by the glow of souls and the sounds of the dead echo across time. In reality its probably lit by torches and guarded by Aurors and traps. Clever people who work for misguided fools feel that ignorance is safer than troubling knowledge, because in this room the greatest secrets of our day sit undisturbed and unheard by human ears."

He leaned back as Madam Pince walked by, and spoke in a normal, but still quiet tone. "Or they may not be important. I'll be able to get in once I pass my O.W.L.s and officially become Lord Malfoy, but I worry that may be too late. The knowledge that there may be something important. We need to know. I'm not really sure what else to do about it, but if a secret that may save lives bothers a Slytherin, perhaps the best way to discover it is to tell a Ravenclaw turned Heroic Gryffindor and ask for help."

Hermione closed her book. "What can these secrets reveal?"

"I don't know. Possibly how to save us all."

* * *

"I cannot believe you would do such a thing. A Professor at Hogwarts."

Minerva McGonagall stood behind her desk. On her head her hat sat, bolt upright, freshly stretched and starched. Not a single article of her robes gave any indication of sloth, lazyness, laxity, or casualness. Her voice hinted at deep disappointment. Not the disappointment of a hopeful parent, but of a betrayed party. "And I don't want to hear about the troubles you've had adjusting to the position. Of all people, you should have seen this coming, Professor Slughorn."

Horace Slughorn blinked. "I consider myself fairly well informed, Headmistress. But I am not exactly sure why am I here."

"Because of Malfoy and his antics at the Ministry."

"Ah ... now _that_ , I did hear about. After the fact, of course. Shouldn't your scolds be directed at Professor Asimov, who took him, or Professor Lockhart, who asked Isaac on Draco's behalf?"

"I can hardly blame a squib for being unaware when he's walking into a magical hornet's nest. And you and I both know that the new Head of Griffyndor isn't exactly renowned for thinking. But the three of you are the tangled bezoar, always chatting. You must have known. And _you_ would understand that Draco's walk into the Ministry would be nothing but trouble. I'm getting owls from three under secretaries, what if they cut our funding? I don't expect you to know everything, but it doesn't take a subtle wizard to know the potential explosiveness of a student going to the Ministry. A potions master studies miscibility, some ingredients you just don't mix."

Horace Slughorn stood there, and bowed his head. "I apologize. Of course as the Head of his House I should be more aware of Young Malfoy's comings and goings and take an interest in his political tutelage. I will speak with him, and also _gently_ correct my less experienced colleagues."

"I'm not being unreasonable," said the Headmistress, sitting down. "That's all I demand."

* * *

Draco knocked at the door, heard the grunting "Enter" and walked into Professor Slughorns room. It was just over the bridge and opposite the Potions classroom, technically not inside the Dungeon but he could stroll into it easily enough, just a minute from his House, and a minute from his classroom. A minute from Draco's room.

Draco entered and closed the door behind him. The furniture was sparse, just a desk and some chairs. There were bookshelves all around the room, mostly covered with autographed pictures that waved to Draco pleasantly.

"The Headmistress took away your Sigil," Professor Slughorn said.

Draco lifted it up and looked at it, then shrugged. "She returned it at Christmas, with the understanding that I wouldn't be bringing it back. And she did fashion me a replacement, to use as a bludgeon. That was nice of her."

"I take it as an honour that you feel I'm enough of a threat to warrant risking expulsion just to see to your safety. Sit down Draco. I've just spent a rather unpleasant hour being lectured by the Headmistress and as it happens I'm not in a mood to reenact the experience to someone else, even you. So, I'll just ask what you hoped to accomplish."

Draco stared into Professor Slughorn's eyes, and saw his surprise at the bold act. After a moment he lowered his gaze, submissively.

"Exactly what it seemed. You know there was a prophecy that Professor Trewlaney spoke, before the Headmaster took her."

"Yes," Professor Slughorn said, "I heard about it too, at the time. Of course."

"What if it wasn't about Voldemort? And what is _he coming for?_ What will he tear apart?" Draco let just a hint of desperation from his voice.

Professor Slughorn picked up a small china cup and took a sip of tea. Draco noticed that he hadn't been offered any. _A snub? Or recognition that I would refuse?_ Draco just sat as Professor Slughorn considered for a second cup of tea.

"What does the name 'Tom Riddle' mean to you?"

"I can't say that I've heard it," Draco said calmly, hoping it wasn't too calmly.

"No, I imagine you can't," said Professor Slughorn, chucking. "Well, let me tell about him. Riddle was my brilliant student, clever. Not just book clever, he would use spells in ways you wouldn't imagine in years. Even though he was raised by muggles his power grew quickly, and by the time he graduated ... well, I had no doubt he'd eclipse all of my previous proteges. I had such high hopes for him."

"And what became of him, sir?"

"If I believe the stories? Your friend Miss Granger killed him last year." Professor Slughorn put down his tea cup. "Consider yourself reprimanded and show yourself out, Draco."

* * *

Draco walked back towards his room.

If Professor Slughorn was right, Tom Riddle was Voldemort's real name. He finally had confirmation that his vision of Dumbledore had been true. Or at least contained new factual information. The vision predicted that Tom Riddle was Voldemort's name.

It was always possible that Professor Slughorn had pulled the information from Draco's head, but if so, why confirm it? And if not ... Draco had received a wholly unexpected bonus from yesterday's tedious adventure. The entire trip to the Hall of Prophecy had been a long shot, a gambit. Apparently it had attracted much more attention than he'd hoped.

Draco smiled. He'd gotten quite lucky. He'd expected to waste a few hours or an afternoon, but had apparently stuck a nerve. He'd rattled branches and a valuable piece of information had tumbled to the ground. And nobody at all seemed to notice that he'd stopped in his vault on a side errand.

Draco twirled his Sigil once before dismissing it, and it disappeared into the aether.

Draco had work to do and spells to master.


	45. January

Auror Behry saw Draco Malfoy and the Weasley Twins walking through the small corridor between the infirmary and Peverell.

"Come to make another try at it, 'eh?" he said cheerfully. "Well, you know the drill." There were trunks to store all of their gear.

"Can we take our wands through? I mean, that isn't allowed, but some people can do wandless magic."

"We're not trying to break it today," said one of the twins. "We just want to experiment on a few spells."

"We've got some ideas," said the other, conspiratorially.

Auror Behry pulled out his mirror. "I'm going to have to call it in..."

* * *

"Did you know that there are Muggle Wizards?" Draco Malfoy said, before taking a bite of a waffle.

Daphne looked up from her pancakes. She noticed that most of the table was watching Draco, now. He'd spoken loudly and now he paused, putting down his knife.

"I know, it's stupid. A Muggle Wizard. But they put on shows and they can do some amazing things. They make things float, or disappear. They can tell which piece of paper you picked even when you shuffle them all back together. They can read your mind."

Daphne had recovered first. "Those are all pretty simple spells, Draco," she said.

"Yes, but _they can't do magic_. They are muggles. They don't know _Wingardium Leviosa_ , but they can fly. They can't do Transfiguration, but they turn people into tigers. They do it for show, to entertain other muggles. They can't actually do it, of course, they use gadgets and have figured out incredibly clever ways to confuse people and hide what they are doing. But the really funny thing? Some of them tricked scientists into thinking they could do real magic."

"But the Statute of Secrecy," gasped Colin Creevey.

"Doesn't apply to Muggles," said Daphne. "And these scientists believed them?"

"Some of them," Draco said, cutting his waffle. "It's funny. Listen to Potter and you begin to think of science as the greatest thing ever. But it's just like magic, only as good as the Wizard. Or Scientist, as the case may be. These scientists got the idea that if they couldn't figure out a way to do it, nobody could. They tricked themselves."

"And so the Muggles believed in magic?" asked Gregory.

"No," said Harry Potter, who had sat down during the conversation. "Other magicians exposed them as frauds. They showed that there were secretly wires to help things fly, or that when people were reading minds they had someone telling them the answers. It wasn't that science was at fault, it was just the all-too-human error of pride. But you know what _I_ find funny about this, Draco?"

Draco, mouth full, just made a waving motion with his fork to ask for the answer.

"They probably got started by seeing a real Wizard. Some young boy sees Merlin float away a woman, and he spends a while trying to figure out how he did it. And that Muggle spends years and then figures out a magic trick that doesn't involve magic. And it builds up to this entire genre of entertainment. As a nice side benefit, now that Muggles are used to seeing magic tricks, they become less likely to believe in magic, because they know how to fake it ..."

"Which makes you wonder if Merlin planned that all along," said Daphne.

* * *

"So, what spells did they cast?" ask Harry.

"It might be easier to list what spells they didn't cast," Mad Eye Moody growled. They all sent a Patronus around. The Malfoy boy turned his robes into a muggle outfit. They spilled dirt on the floor then scourgified it. They flew a houseplant around the room. I talked to Li, Behry, Septavius, and everyone who watched them. They each had a list, but it seemed like a hodgepodge. A few powerful spells, those Weasley boys think they're clever. But mostly things you'd find in the Helpful Housewife Grimoire. They were there for hours, and they just went through the list, thanked everyone, and said they'd have to come back to try more things.

* * *

"Did he say what this was about?" asked Neville.

"He just said it was important," Vince said. They were walking back from the Quiddich match, which had been exciting but disappointing. Hufflepuff had put up a valiant effort, but Herbert Fleet gave up the final goal with a mere three seconds left on the clock, giving Gryffindor the game. Vincent's voice still sounded gravelly, he'd been screaming the entire final quarter.

The headed up the stairs, breaking away from the rest of the 'Puff contingent. Mike shouted out after them "Watch out for monsters!" and the crowd, mostly quiet after the close loss, laughed. There had been rumours of shadowy hooded figures roaming the halls. Vincent and Neville continued higher and higher into Hogwarts.

"Why the Offense lecture hall, I wonder?" asked Neville. "We have plenty of good meeting places, like, uh..."

"Like the room next to Slytherin?" Vince said.

Neville blushed, "You know about that? I mean, I was going to invite you but I don't know …."

"I lived with Draco all last year," Vince said with a shrug. "Don't worry about it, Draco couldn't invite me, either. Everyone can't do everything."

"Thanks," said Neville, as they got to the lecture hall door. "I can get you into the Muggle wargames. Harry's opening those up."

"That would be cool," said Vince, who'd heard about it from Neville, Gregory and Draco. Each story had a different focus, but they all fascinated him. They stepped into the lecture hall. Draco sat facing the door in a small wooden chair placed next to the tall leathery chair that symbolized Professor Quirrel. Across from Draco sat Daphne Greengrass, who turned her head Neville and Vincent entered. There were two empty chairs on the other two sides of the table, A stoppered flask sat on the desk.

"Shut the door behind you," Draco said, waving them in.

Vincent shut the door - which magically bolted itself after he closed it - and joined Neville as they went and sat down.

"Thanks for coming," Draco said as he opened up the stopper and carefully took out a dropper and placed it on his tongue, then swallowed it. He carefully slid the flask to Neville, who gave a sniff.

" _Veritaserum?_ Where did you … no, I don't want to know." Neville said.

"Best you don't know," Daphne said.

Draco nodded with her. "You don't have to take any. But I wanted to impress on you … on all of you … that this is serious. I realize that my reputation plays against me in some cases. It will take a few minutes for this to kick in. Who won the game?" Draco asked.

Neville gave him a recap for a few minutes, then Draco stiffened a bit.

"It's taken," Draco said and Neville sat, waiting for him to continue. Draco raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you took my word for it," Draco said. "Do you want to test it?"

Vincent shook his head. Neville opened his mouth, then closed it. "This seems overly dramatic."

Daphne leaned across the table, "Now that you mention it, you could be an _occlumens_."

"He isn't," said Vince, "Unless he learned in the fall, or from..." Vincent caught himself. Neville looked over at Vince.

"From Harry," Daphne said, gasping.

"From _Grindelwald_ ," Draco corrected, "who was my houseguest for a month. And no, I didn't learn it from him, although he certainly could have started my lessons. But learning Occlumency from one the greatest magicians of the last century would have been a profoundly wasted opportunity."

Daphne seemed to accept this, but Neville started to get up, "Your _houseguest?_ What is he even doing out of prison?" Neville's voice carried across the entire room and echoed slightly.

Vince put his hand on Neville's arm, but didn't pull him down. "Hear him out," he said. "Please?"

Draco nodded. "I need help. I'm investigating something, and it's important. I can't really tell you how important it is, except to say that I think it equals Voldemort's return from last year. And I need help."

Neville thought this over. "I don't see why you asked me. Harry and Hermione would be much better choices."

"I can't tell them. Sorry, I don't dare go into details, but _you must not tell them_. It's dangerous if they know. That's why I took the Veritaserum, so that you'll believe me when I say _it is dangerous._ I can't even involve Gregory, because I can't risk him accidentally giving something away. It's not that I don't trust Gregory, but Harry may notice if Gregory's acts weird..." Draco shrugged, "You know how he is."

Neville thought some more. "You don't trust Harry?"

Draco said, "Until I'm done with my investigation, I can't. I want to trust him." Draco's flicked the flask with his finger, the nail causing a small ringing. "I trusted you enough to tell you this. You could just go to Harry and say everything, but right now I need people I trust, and people who can fly under the radar." Draco blanched slightly, "Sorry, I meant under Harry's radar. People who can talk to him, or not, as the case may be."

"I got it," said Vince. "Will you tell us why you believe it?"

Draco shook his head. "Not yet. I'm worried about Legilemency. I've taken some precautions for myself, but it's a huge risk to share the information. If we get some confirmation, or if we need a full brainstorm, yes. But you'll have to swear under Veritaserum that you are behind the investigation. I'm hoping it won't come to that."

Neville ran his hands through his hair. "What did you study with Grindelwald. Dark Magic?"

"Nothing like that," said Draco. "He's under an Unbreakable Vow. Some history and experiments with enchantments and glamours. How to layer them, trigger them. He and Dumbledore were both intrigued with underlying theories of magic. We talked about that. Oh, and Transfigurations."

"Then why make him your house guest."

"He's _useful_ , that's why Harry got him paroled," said Draco softly. "And before you agree. This is dangerous. I mean, I don't think we'll die. But we'll make enemies"

Vince nodded.

"Why me?" said Neville.

"You and Harry are friends. I'd like to think we're friends, too. Maybe this is a wild goose chase, but maybe it's not. Maybe I'm right, or maybe I've gone crazy. In any case, I'm going to need someone brave enough to stand up against his friend. Whether that turns out to be me or Harry, I'm not sure yet. You are my conscience."

Neville let out his breath slowly, then nodded.

"What's our first step?" asked Vince.

"Simple. We go to the Hall of Prophecy."

* * *

"Why did they support Voldemort?" Hermione asked Draco quietly, as the sat in the Potions room. The lesson had ended and most had wandered off, but they'd stayed behind. "The death eaters?"

"You ask that like there's just one answer," Draco answered. "Some believed him. They hated Muggles, end of story. Others wanted power. Voldemort carefully recruited powerful individuals and eliminated others, and given the choice between recruitment and elimination. Well, it's not hard."

"Voldemort didn't recruit anyone, he didn't need anyone! He could have ruled this country by himself," said Hermione.

"No, he really couldn't. A fearsome wizard can't do the thousands of things a country needs to do. He can take your money, but can he really go door to door to every salesman, crafter, author, haruspector, diviner, and tax half of their earnings? Does he know how much he can take from each person? Can he solve all the murders he didn't commit, because those criminals are an insult to his power and no government can allow that. Will he learn the thousands of details he needs to know, each day? Of course not, that's boring even if it were possible. Even if Voldemort could do all these things, he would not want to. No, a real government – of any type – requires people. You may not know what the Undersecretary of Divination does, but she has a job and at least half of those bureaucratic jobs involve real issues and knowledge. There's some featherbedding, giving some important ally's dumb nephew a stupid position of authority to cement his aunt's allegiance, but it doesn't happen as often as you'd imagine. Aurors have power, merchants have power, criminals have power, citizens have power, and it's arranged in a complex pattern. If you take it all you'll find that everyone is your enemy. You can take a surprisingly large chunk, but you can't get greedy."

"So, yes, Father cut a deal with Voldemort. He never admitted it, but suppose he hadn't dealt with him, and got murdered along with the others going on? How would that have helped. Voldemort needed Father to handle many aspects of power. All Dark Wizards delegate."

"You wouldn't negotiate with Voldemort, Draco."

"I'd like to think that," Draco said.

* * *

"Well, that was a waste" said George.

(Draco thought he could tell them apart, although he also suspected that they sometimes deliberately let him think that as part of some complex game that he didn't understand. Fred and George Weasley were impressive wizards, fiendishly clever, and funny, but they also reminded Draco that you abandoned traditions at some risk. Traditions started for a reason, in most cases).

The Weasley's had explained that you had to hold off on proposing solutions, so they'd decided to just try a bunch of spells and see what happened, not with any particular plan, just as a brainstorming technique. Sometimes an army won by brute force, but often they won by combining two seemingly random ideas into a stunningly powerful combination. They hadn't been able to think of any stunningly powerful combination, so they'd decided to just try casting spells to see if inspiration struck.

It hadn't.

"Even if we do think of something," said Fred (maybe), "we still don't know how we're going to smuggle a wand in."

"Well, if I only had something like the Muggle Naval Simulation's map, that might do it." Draco said. "There must be some spell powering it. If we knew that spell maybe we could sneak in, or find a small time when nobody was guarding the door. I know, it's a stupid idea. The door is always guarded, but there must be a pattern, some movement. No security is perfect, that would make it too expensive..."

Draco saw the twins exchange a look.

"What? What did I say?" he asked. They exchanged another look.

* * *

Professor Lockhart sat at his desk, in the small room tucked behind the lecture hall for Offense against the Dark Arts. His first lecture of the day would not be for thirty minutes, and he was using this time to review his notes from the prior weekends battle. He heard a slight scuffling of feet and almost called out "Horace?" before he checked himself.

Professor Slughorn did many things, but routinely climb seven flights of stairs was not one of them.

Besides, they'd just spoken an hour ago at breakfast. Gilderoy took out his wand, opened the top drawer and pulled out a small mirror inside it. The scene showed not his reflection, but a view of the lecture hall from atop a storage cabinet in the back, where Professor Lockhart had stuck the twin mirror.

A horrific robed figure stood in front of the main leather chair. Professor Lockhart gasped quietly, his eyes wanted to drift away from the mirror, to glance anywhere else, but he kept his gaze focused on the mirror as his wand twitched and he started raising defenses. He'd barely setup an explosive tripwire jinx on his doorway when the robed figure tossed back its hood and the effect disappeared. Gilderoy Lockhart gasped at the figure, now looking tiny instead of nearly seven feet tall, finished taking off his Armageddon Cloak and stuffed it into a mokeskin pouch, leaving General Malfoy in his place. Draco quickly checked his appearance and then walked towards the door to the teacher's alcove.

Professor Lockhart had just slid his mirror back into the top drawer and closed it when the knocking started.

"Come in!" he said cheerfully, and as the door opened he shoved aside his scrolls. "General Malfoy! A bit early today? What can I help you with?"

Draco Malfoy stood in his doorway and shifted a bit, and Gilderoy felt his smile falter in spite of himself. _That boy has been receiving far too many Owls. Even for a Malfoy._ Professor Lockhart could hear Slughorn's whispered confession from the week before. Had Draco reconciled with Narcissa, or had she told him something that upsetting? Lie or truth?

Professor Lockhart's moment of self-doubt lasted for about a second before Draco said, a bit too loudly. "I've been told to give you a message."

"You'd better come in, then," Gilderoy said. He took out his wand and motioned for Draco to shut the door behind him, then proceeded to cast a full dozen wards. He started off with the simplest wards, then moved onto more complex ones. If Draco knew them he gave no signs of recognition, but neither did he give any sign of surprise. Professor Lockhart cast more complex wards, things he doubted any student had ever heard. Certainly any second year. Only then did he slip in some detection spells, again complex ones, and he could see that Draco had several invisible shields raised.

Spells no second year should know.

He nodded at Draco. "What's the message?"

Draco looked at him, his face showing a bead of sweat on his forehead. Draco's hand clenched his wand, although he kept it lowered towards the ground. That, more than his expression, revealed Draco's fear. Draco, eyes slightly downcast, said " _The eyes of the Basilisk are on you._ " His body barely moved when he spoke.

A moment later his eyes glanced up. "Professor?"

"I heard the message, Draco. Thank you." And he shifted his wand to point at Draco, who had already started to dodge. _Of course, his entire attitude, his precautions, the Armageddon Cloak all demonstrate suspicion_.

But Draco couldn't move faster than a wand. Gilderoy respected the boy's considerable skills, so he'd raised his own shields instantly.

Draco's defenses protected against stunning, jinxes, being put to sleep, and blunt physical trauma. They wouldn't stop Gilderoy's attacks - advanced or not Draco was still just a student - but they would have slowed him down. If he'd been attacking.

Gilderoy Lockhart, wand pointed at Draco, spoke " _Eunoe"_ in a voice barely above a whisper.

Draco fired off an _Expelliarmus_ at the same time, which Professor Lockhart's shields easily deflected as his own spell hit Draco. Draco had started to cast a second spell, but then spluttered and stopped. He turned away for a second, mouth working silently and then he brought his hands up to his forehead and crumpled into a corner, face covered.

When he finally got back up Professor Lockhart couldn't see Draco's eyes, still downcast. But his cheeks were wet.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, "I thought..."

"I can imagine," said Professor Lockhart, sitting back down and putting his wand away. "Do you need any help?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know. I need time to think."

"I had to tell Professor Slughorn about this," Gilderoy said while releasing the wards on the room.

Draco nodded, and wiped his cheeks. He cast several spells and when he turned back around his face looked calm and serene, as though nothing had happened at all. "Tell him it makes sense now, and I thank him. But if he goes digging around my mind again..."

Professor Lockhart waited, but Draco just let the sentence hang between them, then left.


	46. Reflections, Part 4

Draco had raised shields as soon as he'd entered the room. He'd even put harmonics into them, although he'd only just learned to do that reliably. He fired off an _expelliarmus_ at Lockhart, but as the blinding flash of white light hit him he heard _Eunoe_ and then the world went blank.

* * *

 _Harry Potter Day._

Despair washed over Draco. "This isn't an answer," he mumbled to the room, empty except for the shade of his former Headmaster. Then he shouted "I still don't know!" at the image of Albus Dumbledore, who was saying 'Hello, Tom' again _._ "It's not enough! How does this qualify as an answer? You trusted Harry knowing he was Voldemort, but _Voldemort fooled you too_!" Draco took out his wand and lashed out, cutting the mirror, smashing spell after spell at it, first normal spells he'd use in classes, on the battlefield, then the forbidden spells, he levitated a chair from across the room and flung it at the mirror. The chair itself shattered from the impact, leaving no cracks appeared on the glass.

After a few minutes, exhausted, he slumped back to the ground, mumbling. "It's not fair. That's not an answer."

"No, it most definitely is not," said Albus Dumbledore, standing besides the mirror and examining his own shade over half-moon glasses. He raised his head and turned his back on his reflection in the mirror, which continued its looping soliloquy.

"Hello, Draco." Draco scrambled to his feet, wand instinctively out. "I hardly fault you for that, Draco. I imagine you've had a rough time of it, and you've a particular reason to hate me. Still, I would never dream of hurting you."

Draco lowered his wand. "You didn't burn Mother alive, you only pretended to. I can still hate you for all those years, but not as much. It ... was war."

 _Father would have done worse,_ Draco thought.

Dumbledore's blue eye's twinkled. "Narcissa is returned? I am glad. Voldemort is destroyed then. But you are still so young..."

"He was destroyed the night you got trapped," Draco waved at the mirror. Then he brightened up. "You got free! You were only pretending to be trapped? I'm confused. It's only Halloween, the fall after."

"So soon?" Dumbledore sounded wistful. "No, Draco, I am still trapped. But it feels like a mere instant ago, and I suspect that however long it takes until I am truly freed will be just another instant. As to _how_ this happened, well, Let's just say that I'd set up something for just such a situation."

"For the situation of someone here in this room..."

"I believe it is called the Room of Requirements, and even by Hogwarts standards it is exceedingly powerful. You required answers, the room naturally wanted to give them to you."

"So it dragged you out of time, Hogwarts freed you!"

"No, even Hogwarts lacks that power. It ... loosened my bonds, so to speak. Although I helped the process along, which now explains that ridiculous night I stumbled around looking for a bathroom and a certain ritual. No, I am but temporarily freed. Once I have your forgiveness and you have your answers I will be gone again."

"Why should I have to forgive you?"

"Oh, you do not _have_ to forgive me, Draco, but I do hope that you will."

"No. I mean, I don't think you've done anything unforgivable." Draco paused, choosing his words carefully. "I'm not happy about it. But you were fighting Voldemort and I now realize what that meant. The Voldemort Father told me about, he was nothing like the real one was he?"

"Ah, well, as to that I suppose there is some debate. But no, Draco, the real Voldemort was yet another mask worn by Tom Riddle. Who I taught, as you surmised from the mirror. So I bear true blame, even if I could not quite bring myself to burn your mother alive. Such a dreadful cost..." Dumbledore trailed off.

Draco rubbed his temples. "I'm not sure I should believe this. Any of this."

Albus gave a small chuckle, and sat down in a small chair heavily, as if his age had finally caught up with him. "That would be Harry's influence rubbing off on you. How do you suppose _he_ would decide what to believe?"

Draco thought about it. "If this is just a dream or false memory, then something won't add up. But if it's real, there are facts I can verify. So even if it's not you I'll know something."

"Very good. In fact, you can get facts to confirm simply from my conversation with Tom Riddle."

"And those facts will let me confirm that Harry Potter is good."

"Well, they should confirm that I thought so. Which I do. But meaning well and doing well are two entirely different things, don't you think Draco? I think you have done very well indeed. Although we both know there are things you have done you should not be proud of. Torturing Harry with a Dark Hex, for example."

Draco considered this. "That's something I already knew. But no," he said quietly, "I'm not proud of that. I don't suppose I was nice, back then. But … it's funny. I acquired power and made allies because everyone expected it of me. Father. The rest of the students. You, I suppose. And if nothing had happened I would continue. Maybe you should have stopped me, but I doubt you would have. And then, after the trial, I acquired a purpose. I was driven, maybe more so than anyone but Harry himself. I had a worthy ambition and if I turned out to be wrong it would still serve me well. The uncertainty drove me even more, because the one thing I knew was that _I might need to use it_. Now that I have something like confirmation and I can relax..."

Dumbledore has been listening with growing interest but at the last phrase he flickered and his face turned into a frown, and he interrupted Draco and got up, coughing slightly.

"I am sorry, Draco, if I gave you the impression that _trusting_ Harry Potter sufficed. That may not be as comforting as you'd hoped. You see, there is a prophecy. Harry Potter will destroy the world. I listened to it myself, in the Hall of Prophecies."

Draco stuttered a few times, speechless.

"No, Harry means well. But destroying the world while meaning well still seems … extreme. I have balanced things out as best I can. But I cannot do that while trapped."

Draco gasped, "You want me to kill Harry..."

"Oh Merlin no. Harry might live for thousands of years, now. If he were to die suddenly he'd have to destroy the world before he died you see. Prophecies are tricky things, and Harry might very well destroy the world trying to save it. Or he may destroy it in a fit of rage, or through carelessness. I rather think he will destroy the world in a good way. But I may have misjudged and Harry will in fact turn evil. As you pointed out, Voldemort has fooled me before. While Harry's alive there's always hope. No, _you_ must ensure that if he does destroy the world, he does so in the best possible way. And if he does not, well, you must deny him, without killing him."

Draco thought about it. "I can't. Not forever. A year, sure. I have a head start, but he's gaining rapidly. Can I keep ahead of him through through school? Maybe. But after that, he'll be too powerful. I'll slip up. I don't even know _Occlumency_. I'll slip up and he'll catch on. No, you have to send me a message later on when I'm older. I can't remember this now," Draco pointed his wand firmly at his head but Albus Dumbledore strode over and knocked his wand away, and it skittered along the floor, almost all the way back to the mirror where the shade of Albus Dumbledore was saying "Hello, Tom," again.

"No! _This_ you must remember, I cannot do this again! There are no other messages." Dumbledore deflated and sighed, then opened his hand and Draco's wand flew back into it. When he spoke again his voice was sad and serene.

"I can plot no further, Draco, and so I ask your forgiveness, just as I asked Severus when I gave him his tasks. And when I finally see him, rest assured that I will ask for Salazar's forgiveness, for the demands I've made on his followers, _but this you must do."_

"How?"

"That must be your plot, Draco. I dare not tell you a plan, lest you follow it blindly. You will need to make adjustments on the way. But you are not alone. I still have allies here, and help is always available at Hogwarts to those who ask. Do you really need to hide this memory?"

Draco nodded.

"Very well, go see Professor Lockhart and tell him what you require. If he balks, tell him ' _The eyes of the Basilisk are on you._ ' He'll lock this memory safely away, but recoverable. I only have a few moments left," Dumbledore handed Draco his wand back.

"I would ask you to tell Narcissa that I am sorry, but our conversation must remain a secret. So I ask you again, Draco, for forgiveness. Not for the past, but for your future. It is a hard task I set before you, but the world hangs in the balance."

Albus Dumbledore looked at Draco Malfoy over the half-moon glasses, eyes pleading. But when Draco finally opened his mouth to reply the Headmaster and the mirror disappeared. Draco paused for a moment, then took out his journal and wrote a few notes before heading out to find Professor Lockhart.

* * *

Draco looked around as the memory faded to see that he was still in Professor Lockhart's office. He'd crumpled into the corner and as he pulled himself up Draco realized he'd been crying.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, "I thought..."

 _I thought I was going crazy. I thought I was going to die. And now I don't know what to think.  
_

"I can imagine," said Professor Lockhart, sitting back down and stowing his wand. Draco suspected he didn't have the slightest inkling. "Do you need any help?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know. I need time to think."

"I had to tell Professor Slughorn about this," Professor Lockhart said.

Draco nodded, and wiped his cheeks and cast three glamours to improve his appearance. "Tell him it makes sense now, and I thank him. But if he goes digging around my mind again..."

Draco slipped out of the room, and started walking back towards Slytherin. As he walked, he pulled a silver ring out of his pouch, then took off an identical ring off his left hand. As Draco switched them, he made his way back to his room.

Things were starting to make sense.

All he needed now was all the information he'd lost and a plan.

At least for the information, he knew where to begin.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- Due to having a full October, I'm switching back to a single update per week. Next update on Tuesday the 13th.


	47. Wargames, Part 7

Draco stretched, taking a few precious seconds to rub his neck and rest his eyes. _I'm tired of that map._

The view never changed, mostly water. Land from the south jutted up into the lake or sea or wherever it was, a small bump ships moved around. A gentle curve of land starting in the east and gently curving to the north. A few islands - including one that looked vaguely like a dolphin. The _Bludger_ bobbed gently, roughly halfway between the invading land to the south and the northern shore. A good position to monitor air traffic. Hermione said she'd seen it before, but Draco didn't recognize it and Harry had asked them not to investigate.

Which was fine with Draco. He had more pressing concerns.

Dozens of brooms moved across the map, but the voices around him spoke calmly and softly. This simulation had just started its third hour: they'd gotten up early on a Saturday morning so that they could do a full day.

Like Muggle Movie Night, The Muggle Broom Simulation (as it was now called) had proven popular. Harry had opened them up to other students and asked each of the Bayesian Conspiracy Members to run groups through. Draco still didn't know how to create or operate a scenario, but once you started it the spell took over. By now over twenty groups had finished the basic simulation that the Conspiracy ran the first night. That left hundreds of students who wanted to try. A spectator area had been set up, which helped now. Since people witnessed other missions, the adjudicator didn't need to explain every detail every time. Several special training sessions had been run to explain things to the entire crowd, and there were a few variant simulations, to add to the surprise.

Harry had warned this new scenario was much more complicated.

Draco couldn't disagree.

Draco couldn't see the spectators, but _The Bludger_ usually drew a crowd. Each crew named their own ship, and kept tallies of their wins and losses. So far this morning they'd dealt with several brooms trying to take advantage of blind spots, a large broom attack, and an accidental fire had rendered them blind for several minutes before their map had been restored. Now several boats had started an assault against the _Doppleganger Defense_. They'd been small boats - practically invisible to radar - but _The DD_ was vulnerable to even the smallest boats.

It was another _Skysweeper_ , after all.

"How long until our brooms reach the DD?" Draco asked, eyes still closed. He could remember the rough broom positions. The _Doppelganger Defense_ was off to their west, and the brooms were on it. Green brooms were converging on their position. Draco felt like the map image had been burnt onto his retina.

"Five minutes," said Daphne, who was running communications for today.

"Contact 4474, presumed red," said Gregory.

Draco opened his eyes and looked at the map. 4474 had just taken off from the mixed use northern-central airbase. The clock showed 10:17:15. Barely three hours into the simulation, five hours to go. Harry had explained that this scenario studied fatigue on decision making. This was _meant_ to be tiring, Draco felt exhausted already. This was another hassling run, probably. The enemy almost never directly attacked, not without a local force advantage, but they'd send out brooms to divide forces or probe for weak spots. Right now the _Bludger_ had sent its brooms to help the _DD_ , so it didn't have great defenses.

Draco sat in the big chair today.

An automated voice, sounding like a middle aged woman said, " _Bludger_ , Request information on P-3." The simulation had gotten more complicated. Now the team also fielded requests from the rest of the fleet, as well as getting support from them. Draco scanned the map for the P-3, which was apparently a command broom carrying equipment similar to a _skysweeper_. He'd been incredulous last week when they'd been added to the scenario, that Muggles had _flying_ command centers. But Harry assured him they did.

Since the P-3 flew it could scrye farther than the _Bludger_. It was probably coordinating the red brooms. Draco didn't see it on the map.

"Southern view? That P-3?" The broom had been seen in the south west … fifteen minutes ago. Was it that long? Draco had a rough feel for how fast it could go, but that covered a large portion of the map.

Hermione ran the Southern view today. "It's been out of our range for over eight minutes. I've got last known coordinates. Let me see ..." As Hermione spoke the simulation continued asking about target numbers. They'd complained about that, but apparently that was realistic. The simulation didn't listen to them. Just gave information. Draco saw Hermione's notation appear on the main map.

"Comms, relay the information back on the P-3," said Draco. Daphne acknowledged the command and Draco could forget about this. A few seconds later Daphne spoke up again.

" _DD_ is firing on incoming boats and taking fire. Still requesting support." Draco saw a red broom disappear near the DD. He almost cursed, it would be at least five more minutes before they could support. A broom appeared at the edge of the eastern coast, well inside the outer circle. It had probably been flying low to avoid radar. A second. Both red. Draco didn't need to do anything, the team ran smoothly.

"New targets," said Hermione. "4802 and 4845 coming in from the east. ETA five minutes." They'd seen dozens of hassling sorties over the last two sessions. If these two brooms followed the pattern, they'd rush towards the _Bludger_ for a few minutes, then break off. Two brooms weren't a serious threat, but could provoke an incident if Draco over-reacted. Eventually one would try something … and given the current attack on their sister ship now might just be the time.

"Captain," Gregory said. "4474 hasn't acknowledged my challenges."

Draco looked at the map. 4474 still had a red question mark. Draco recognized the path, it was used by the grey brooms to go from the mixed use northern airfield to the mixed use southern airfield. But enemy planes sometimes hid in the shadows of the larger skybuses.

"Comms, confirm." Draco said. Draco could hear Daphne's quiet voice talking.

Draco noticed that the red brooms in the east closing in, still a few more minutes away from where he could threaten them. Draco looked at the map and focused on the broom bearing down on them. _This didn't feel right._ He couldn't do anything about the other brooms. Not yet.

"What do we know about 4474?" Draco asked.

"Uh, took off three minutes ago. No scheduled flight at that time, which is why simulation presumed red. Following the standard path for grey brooms, that's why I checked." Gregory hesitated than offered his opinion. "A gutsy hassle run, maybe?"

Daphne started to say something, but the automated voice cut her off.

" _Bludger,_ be advised brooms 4850 and 4292 breaking off from _Doppelganger Defense_ and targeting you." The voice sounded matronly, like an officious bureaucrat pleased with herself.

"It's not responding," Daphne said.

"Those two breaking from DD to us have priority," Draco said, and he could see the readouts indicating that Neville had moved the shields to cover the brooms breaking away from the _DD_ towards them. Blaise was also bringing weapons to bear. He watched them, they'd be here in a few minutes. _That was too much of a coincidence._ Two brooms coming in from the west, two coming in from the east, and one from the north.

"ETAs on all inbounds?" Draco said. Numbers appeared on all the brooms, All the brooms would hit the red circle within a minute or two. He couldn't deal with them all.

Draco started to speak but the simulation started as well, Draco raised his voice. "Declare a no fly zone, our red circle, effective now. Order all brooms away. Weapons Free. Keep shielding the pair to the west."

The bridge responded with a flurry of voices. The two eastern brooms kept approaching, but the western brooms were veering south. They might clip the no-fly zone, it would be close. The northern broom stayed unchanged.

"Ops, What is 4474 doing? Anyone?"

"I … I can't tell," said Gregory. Hermione flicked her wand at the map. Then again.

Gregory found his voice "Got it. Descending. It's an attack run!"

"It's ascending," said Hermione, her voice rising in tone just like Gregory's had.

"Which is it?" Draco said. The ETA counter was timing down. "Shields cover 4474. Weapons, you are free to shoot the others, but hold off on 4474."

"Something is weird about it," said Gregory and Hermione quickly agreed but they were both working their wands. The ETA timer was counting down.

"Covering 4474," said Neville. The timer was at five seconds. Draco watched it counting down to four three, two, one, zero, the broom was flashing as it crossed the red circle. It could fire on them now, and the closer it got the worse it would be.

Neville, staring intently at his readout, spoke up "Thirty more seconds and our shields won't matter."

They'd learned early on that, at least for these type of scenarios, Muggle shields worked on deception, not brute strength. Once a broom could see the ship it could fire a missile, shields or no.

" _What's it doing?"_ Draco said, barely getting his words out before the _DD_ requested another update on the P-3.

"It's … gone?" said Hermione, but the broom still showed up on the map. Her wand was moving furiously now, searching the map.

"No, descending, gaining speed," Gregory's voice was steady again. "It's right on the same path, how could you ..." Gregory's voice trailed off, the question unasked. Draco stared at the main map, the broom was right there.

"Twenty," said Neville.

Draco "Weapons, target them. Hermione, I see it on the map. Comms, are they talking?"

"Targeting," Blaise shouted to be heard over the intercom, which was reporting _Green brooms engaged over Doppelganger Defense._ The simulation was still speaking, listing new broom contacts from other ships, when Daphne answered "Still no communications from them."

Draco looked as the eastern broom tracks veered suddenly off. The western brooms would miss the no-fly zone. 4474 hadn't changed course.

"Ten seconds," said Neville.

Even before he finished Draco responded "Fire."

Several long seconds later the 4474 disappeared from the map.

"Confirmed," said Neville.

Draco turned his attention to situation to the west. "When will we reach shielding distance to help the _DD?_ "

"Two minutes," said Gregory.

With the green brooms engaging the enemy and the hassling sorties out of position to coordinate against the _Doppelganger Defense t_ he operation became easy, even routine. A mopping up effort. Twenty minutes later the skies were green. Suddenly, the map disappeared.

Draco blinked, the clock said 10:45.

"Another fire? We've still got four hours to go," Draco said. "Get the sailors to estimate the damage..."

"No, we're done," said Harry. "A bit of misdirection, I never intended to run an eight hour simulation. That would take too long. I just wanted you to think it would be eight hours when we started. I'd like to run this simulation for a few other teams, so please don't talk about it with anyone. We'll start Monday night. Gregory, are you available to operate?"

"Sure," said Gregory.

"Why lie about the time," Draco asked.

"Well, so you wouldn't know when the critical moment was. You'd assume it would come in the end of the test, so I had to make 'the end of the test' seem much further away."

"So we won? We saved the _DD_ " asked Blaise.

"It's not about winning or losing," said Harry, voice carefully neutral. "It's about operating efficiently under stress and making right decisions."

Something in Harry's tone triggered a warning bell in Draco's head. Harry acted socially ... inept, but gave praise easily. Harry spent countless nights encouraging the Bayesian Conspiracy. Over the last month Harry had commended the bridge of the _Bludger_ and other crews. He tutored Hufflepuffs, for Merlin's sake. Harry's days remained a mystery, but during evenings he encouraged anyone and helped all who asked. Draco saw Hermione's shoulders slump, she apparently shared his opinion.

Only one decision had been stressful for the entire four hours, and Harry's tone implied Draco had gotten it wrong.

"4474," Draco's voice quieted the room. "It was grey, wasn't it?"

Harry paused and shifted uncomfortably. "The _HMS Bludger_ just killed 290 civilians."

The lights came up and Draco felt relieved to see that the spectator area was empty, except for Professor Lockhart.


	48. Wargames, Part 8

Draco replayed the decision in his head while the House Elves appeared, setting up a small table for lunch. After a moment Draco opened his eyes and saw Hermione sitting in her chair, hunched over. After Harry had announced that they'd killed innocent civilians the room descended into several arguments, but Hermione just sat there.

Draco paused. Father's voice quickly listed all of the reasons not to talk to Hermione. Draco ignored him, walked over and sat down beside her, angled slightly away. He didn't want to appear confrontational.

"It was my fault, Hermione." Draco's voice wasn't soothing, didn't sound comforting. Just stating a fact. "I was in command. I gave the order."

"I should have known. I knew something was wrong." Draco saw that Harry walking over towards them. "I knew I'd seen that map before. It was on the news." Her voice was quivering.

"We all knew something was wrong. I felt it. And it came down to a choice. In many ways it's just the counter to my speech after the Purple/Green War. These things happen, and just like we shouldn't beat ourselves up if we die in war..."

"I have less tolerance for murder than death," she glared at him angrily. "And what happened to ' _save them all_ ', Draco?'"

"That's the standard we aspire to," Draco said softly. "But it's an impossible standard."

Harry was walking over towards them, and Professor Lockhart had come down from the spectator area. They were both converging on Draco and Hermione.

Draco ignored that, and continued talking "We didn't know what the target was. Shooting it down was a risk. Not shooting it down was a _different_ risk. There were no certainties. I _knew_ that. The cost of being wrong differed, mainly. I couldn't save everyone and that eats at me, a little. But it's only because I messed up. Better to do it now, during a simulation."

Hermione wasn't quite crying, but her eyes weren't dry. Draco felt a spark of rage at Harry. _He should have known she'd take this badly_. Most of the team wasn't taking it well – losing had that effect on teams – but Hermione felt it deeply. "If I'd killed that many people in real life, I think I'd be hurt. But I can't really feel it. The fact that it upsets you shows you are a good person. Better than me." Draco put his arm around Hermione's shoulder and squeezed, once.

"We should have been able to save everyone," Hermione said.

"It wasn't a fair test," Professor Lockhart said, staring over the heads of Hermione and Draco. "For a number of reasons, but I would say mainly that in terrible situations terrible things happen. And I cannot find it in me to blame people for making the decision that keeps them out of danger. Even if the danger was imaginary."

Harry looked uncomfortable, and Draco glanced around the room. Blaise and Gregory were still yelling, and Neville and Daphne were standing in front of the big map, talking with the Professors. The map showed the positions of the brooms during the attack, right as the pair had broken off from the _Doppelganger Defense._ Neville pointed out a gap that could have bought them some time, another few seconds.

Gregory had stormed away from Blaise and walked over to Daphne, and said "How could you not contact them?" finger pointing accusingly at her chest. If she'd been a boy, Gregory would have poked her. Draco felt sure that Gregory didn't really feel guilty, but in his mind Gregory had lost and he was lashing out.

"Nobody knows, Gregory." Harry said firmly. "Nobody knows. This was real. It really happened, pretty much like the simulation said." Everyone had stopped arguing and turned to Harry.

"Obviously it's more complicated and didn't involve magic. But the sequence of events is pretty close. You have a crew dealing with harassing brooms, and brooms that color switch, and then a few details get confused and events spiral out of control. I wanted to witness how it happened, so I could learn from their mistake. Maybe I shouldn't have done this. I didn't realize it would hit so hard. I'm sorry."

"There was no right answer," Draco said. "I was just telling Hermione that. If I'd been wrong the other way, we would have all died."

Neville spoke up, "What happened? I mean, something weird happened."

"4474 was renumbered to 4131 automatically by the simulation. I changed the number on you."

"That's cheating," Neville said, over the other protesting voices, but Harry just talked over them.

"Yes, yes. But that's necessary for the fleet to talk to each other. If you don't renumber, then you'll refer to 4474 and the other ships will know it as their number. There was an announcement, but it was in the middle of other things. I didn't expect anyone to notice, and you didn't. People think they notice everything, but you each had a task and with the stress you filtered out the routine background announcements to focus on the threats. You say its cheating, but you didn't really understand the system the simulation used. Not that you necessarily should have, but if you had asked it would have been explained."

"That's not fair," said Blaise.

"There have been studies where they ask people to count the number of times a sports team tosses a ball around a circle. Most people get the number right, but don't even notice the person in the background dressed as a gorilla that comes out and does a little dance," said Harry.

"When did the announcement happen?" Daphne asked.

"During the request for the P-3, shortly after the flight took off. Later on Gregory keyed in the the number which brought up the wrong information, since 4474 now referred to a different plane. Hermione used her wand to pick out the correct plane..."

At the last one Hermione wiped her eyes and a look of despair came across her face. "I wasn't looking for the contact number. Just the altitude. I didn't think to check..."

Harry interrupted her, rather than let her continue to blame herself. "Everyone knew something was wrong, and didn't have time to figure out why. _By that point, you had already lost_. Draco might have picked the right solution by accident but that would just be luck."

Professor Lockhart nodded and his voice came out low, like a growl. "That's a rather brutal lesson. But correct. You lost when the situation became something beyond your understanding." He paused, then suddenly spoke in a normal voice. "But no harm done! That's why we have these lessons! Very commendable, Mr. Potter."

Harry paused as the last House Elf disappeared. There was a small table set up with assorted meats, cheeses and breads, as well as a bowl of fresh salad and pitchers of tea. A working lunch.

Harry kept talking. "Compared to most students and Muggles you are all battle hardened professionals, but so was the original crew. _They_ argued amongst themselves, possibly even broke military discipline. They knew they were confused, just like you. Already you are so much further ahead than from last year."

"We didn't have time," Daphne's voice was cold, accusing.

"Such is realism," Harry shot back, then grimaced. "I don't want to talk about solutions to this particular problem in general, I just want to hear about what you were thinking as it went on. In wars, lots of people die when you get into situations like this, where people feel threatened and lash out. Muggle Wars kill the innocent much more often than the soldier, but I'm sure it happens in Wizarding Wars as well."

Harry looked around to the Wizarding born. Draco nodded.

"It's not as bad." said Professor Lockhart, "Wizards typically see their victims, but curses still miss and the Killing Curse always finds a victim..."

Draco saw that Hermione had calmed down. She hadn't spoken yet.

"So, I just want to see what we learned. This is a hard problem. You lost the simulation because several improbable factors happened. None of them were rare, but put together it built up a world view that was easy to get wrong. The actual crew got it wrong in the real world, and they had months of training, not a few evenings scattered over six weeks. So, that's the problem. Let's discuss what happened, exactly, for at least half an hour and _only then_ see if we can figure out how to solve it."

* * *

Draco sat in the Slytherin common room, facing the roaring fire. They'd talked about the battle for about an hour, everyone eventually grabbing some food. After they'd ended the session Draco had come back and spent the rest of his day sitting. Lodged in front of the fire thinking, pausing only to eat dinner. He'd considered today's lessons and compared them to the past two years. People came and went in the common room, Draco barely noticed. Draco only glanced up at Gregory when he said it was time for dinner.

Draco shook his head and fell back into thought.

Hours later, well, after the sun went down, Draco went to his room, got a small scroll, and sat down at his desk. He sharpened a quill and started to write.

 _The keys to defeating a clever enemy are several fold:_

 _There must be some information that the enemy does not know, or knows incorrectly._

 _If there is a solution that the enemy can spot, you can still make it difficult by creating so many possibilities that they cannot be evaluated in time. Suppose there are two key facts that the enemy needs to piece together. Even if they know both, if they have to compare 50 facts it may be impossible to link them. And if the fact has to link through an intermediate fact, it becomes even harder._

Draco considered this. Harry had full advantage of the methods, but Harry's lesson on maths had been revealing. Sometime you had to have a key insight, and how difficult that is depends on how many facts you have to compare to reach it. If you have just two facts, you can draw a line between them in only a single way. If you have three facts you draw three lines, it makes a triangle. If you have four facts, you draw a square, but you can also connect the corners. Six possibilities. Five facts and you have a pentagon with five internal lines. The number of lines grows faster than the number of dots. And that's just if you have to compare _two_ facts. If you have to group three facts together, you matched pairs of lines. Draco's Arithmancy wasn't up to the task of figuring out the exact number, but it didn't matter. If you got to even fifteen or twenty facts, it would become impossible.

 _Too much information can, paradoxically, make decisions less obvious._

 _Motives and Goals are key facts, easily hidden in some cases._

 _Even in a puzzle, an ambush is the best way to go._

 _Coupled with stress and time pressure, the enemy will discover themselves in a situation where they can only win by luck._

 _Try to reduce your enemy's knowledge of their current situation._

 _Ideally, take action to counter luck and make it so that_ _either_ _obvious decision is the wrong one._

Draco glanced down at the paper, read over it once, then crumpled it up. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, then nodded to himself. Draco walked back to the common room and tossed the crumpled scroll into the fire and sat back down into his chair.

For the first time all day he smiled.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- As several people on r/hpmor noticed, this scenario is (loosely) based on the _USS Vincennes_ which shot down Iran Air Flight 655 over the Straits of Hormuz on July 3rd, 1988. The incident is modeled in "Sources of Power: How People Make Decisions" by Gary Klein, which goes into more detail than the Wikipedia account.

I have not independently confirmed the details provided by Klein. There are considerable differences between his review and the information presented on Wikipedia. My presentation is based on one version of the facts, facts that were hotly debated for years.

I have changed some details (with an eye towards simplification, but also to make the situation more stressful). In the real world the _Vincennes_ was responding to a hostile attack on an allied ship at the time, so open hostilities were occurring. The severity of this attack is under dispute. Others (including some in the US Navy) believe the Captain of the Vincennes over-reacted, but for purposes of the simulation, Harry simulated a true threat.

The AEGIS Targeting computer labelled 4474 "presumed hostile" because it had delayed from its scheduled departure time. Further confusing the issue was that the computer re-labeled the target from 4474 to 4131 shortly after take off and in the confusion most of the crew did not hear this announcement. If anybody did hear, it apparently did not register. Which means that some crew typed in the number 4474 on their consoles and reported the airspeed indicators of the new target 4474, an A-6 which was descending and speeding up.

Taking all this (mis)information together, some crew interpreted the commercial airliner as "making an attack run" against the ship. Iran Air Flight 655 did have a civilian transponder code, but the Iranian Military sometimes spoofed civilian transponders on their military planes and had done that recently.

There is still some question as to why the commercial airliner did not respond to clarify. The Vincennes requested contact on civilian channels (3 times, according to Wikipedia), but apparently did not have the communication capacity to contact commercial air traffic control to ask them to relay the message. (According to Klein). Why IA 655 did not respond is a mystery.

Records show that the crew was divided before the captain gave the order to fire.

The entire incident - from takeoff until the _USS Vincenness_ fired - lasted eight minutes.

None of the 290 people onboard IA 655 survived.


	49. Contingencies

**Author's Update -** The original version of this chapter had duplicated scenes from Ch. 45. This was a mere oversight on my part, not some clever scheme.

* * *

 _March 6th_

"I've already explored this area, Draco," Harry said, as they trudged up another flight of stairs. "We're heading towards the defense lecture hall, but if you go up the eighth flight of stairs you go back to my office. I pass this area every day." Draco nodded, a few steps ahead of Harry.

They'd been walking for a bit, Draco said he had something he wanted to show Harry. A secret room as a reward for Harry showing Draco his office, and this was the rare Saturday afternoon that had nothing scheduled. No Quidditch game, and the N.E.W.T. armies were battling in the streets of Hogsmeade so nothing worth spectating. Harry had considered pulling rank to go watch that battle. During negotiations with the mayor Professor Lockhart had graciously granted the residents permission to stun or harass any annoying students. Harry felt like it would be hysterical. But he'd also wanted to talk with Draco, who seemed pleased to have discovered a secret Harry didn't know. They passed the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry and then Draco veered over to a door that Harry had never noticed.

Draco swung the door opened and bowed dramatically.

"How. About, A nice game. Of Chess?" Draco said with no inflection, no emotion. Harry wandered into the majestic ballroom, the walls were covered with bookshelves, and there were small coffee tables and chairs all around the room, but the center of the ballroom was covered in an elegant eight by eight checkerboard, with chess pieces standing almost as tall as Harry.

Harry Potter chuckled. "You know, if you told me I'd sometimes regret how popular Muggle Movie Night has become, I wouldn't have believed you. Muggle or Wizard?"

Draco dropped his robotic impression, and switched to a formal, fluid voice that Harry called _Draco's playwright_ "By Custom, By Law and by the 2nd ruling of the 18th Wizengamot, the challenged party in the duel gets the right to choose." Draco walked inside the room and the door shut behind him. The torches on the wall were far enough away that the lighting barely flickered, just gave a warm glow, like soft incandescent lighting, only slightly orange.

"You've become quite good at Muggle Chess," Harry said. "You could be great at it."

Now Draco chuckled.

"People like you and me, we'll never get great _at chess_. We have natural talent and enjoy it, but the effort required is a gigantic waste. So we just spend the rare hour or two playing to relax. And I've found the perfect place, admit it." Draco had taken out both chess sets and placed them on the floor between himself and Harry, who both sat on the ground, cross legged.

"OK, OK. I've got to admit, this place is great. Muggle Chess, then. Wizard chess would hardly be a contest for you, not anymore. Although if these were neutral pieces." Draco walked over to a smaller Wizard Chess set - there were several smaller board scattered around the main board – and took out his wand and waved it at the set " _Leviludis!_ "

The pieces floated up, complaining and scrabbling on the board for purchase. Draco just shushed them quietly, like a gentle mother. Harry watched Draco grabbed two pawns out of mid-air, one white and one black, and put them behind his back, mixing them up. He stuck his hands out, and Harry pointed to Draco's left hand.

Draco opened it to reveal a black pawn. He placed both small pawns on the board. There were two high chairs off to the side of the main board and Draco climbed into the chair slightly on the white side, while Harry climbed into the other on the black side. The small set floated up alongside with Draco, possibly just attached, and he pulled it out of the air and set it down on the table. Draco adjusted his spell so that small board floated, dropping slowly back to the table between them as though it were underwater. Or on the moon.

Draco picked up a small conical megaphone and said "Pawn to Queen Four" and the large pawn down below them slid smoothly two spaces forward. Harry had lent Draco a book, a collection of games from an early tournament to select a challenger for the world championship and Draco had been slowly going over the games with Gregory and Harry in his rare break from studying or (Harry knew), plotting to break into the Hall of Prophecies.

Those games had subtleties they didn't understand, even with the grandmaster commentary, but Draco had picked up a feel for how different opening moves led to different games, and he preferred the more subtle queen pawn openings. Draco passed the megaphone to Harry and he chose his move.

They quickly played the first few moves, passing the megaphone back and forth, and settled into an Old Indian Opening. After Harry's fifth move Draco paused, they'd gotten past a position Draco recognized and could just play from memory.

Draco spent several minutes thinking, but he talked while he thought. It was rude to talk during your opponents turn, so conversations between the two were like extended soliloquies.

"This opening reminds me of a game from your book. Great game. Black sacrificed his queen for only a pawn, but it pulled the white king half way up the board and really exposed him, and then twenty moves later Black won. It's clear, once you play through it, that he hadn't seen the winning position, Black played a few waiting moves just shuffling pieces back and forth, until he saw the winning play. But the sacrifice gave him position and tempo."

Draco exchanged his queen pawn for Harry's king pawn. Harry could retake with either a pawn or a knight. He considered the implications of each move.

"I remember that game. It made an impression on me, too. But with grandmasters you really only get great games when the position is so complicated that neither one of them can see how it ends." Harry recaptured with his pawn. The captured pieces slid gracefully off the board, other pieces moving aside, and then kept going until they were up against one of the walls. You could still see them, if you knew where to look.

"Yeah," said Draco. "If they both agreed that one position was good for one side, the other would naturally avoid that position. So we only witness a great game by the masters when it's nebulous. Most of their excellence is above our heads. It takes a rare position too complicated for even them before we witness fireworks on the board."

"Yes, it's like the _Bludger_ simulation. You avoid a situation where you can lose. If everything goes well with your plan, there's nothing to watch."

Draco and Harry continued to array their pieces as the opening transitioned to midgame, each trying to get more mobility. They challenged each other for the center in a slow build up. During Harry's turn Draco still watched the board spread out below them, but he also took the Wizard chess set beside him and balanced the board on a pawn. It would have been impossible, but the levitation spell made it barely work. The chess pieces complained, and they formed a rough circle around the center of the board to keep it from toppling. It wasn't a regular chess position, pieces were on two squares or more, and all mixed up, but Draco kept tinkering with it.

Harry tried to ignore it and made his move, ordering a pawn forward to storm the kingside. Draco would have counter-attacking possibilities if he exchanged pawns and opened it up, or he could lock the position but be cramped.

Draco flicked the wizard chess set's side at the corner, and the board slowly spun like a top while he thought for several minutes, pausing to flick the wizard board. Beside him, a queen complained loudly about the treatment – calling Draco 'a cretinous cur' – apparently comfortable talking back since Draco was treating that set like a toy, not a game. Draco picked up the megaphone and captured Harry's pawn.

Harry had expected that, neither one of them liked a position where you had few choices, and he'd planned his response but it didn't hurt to double check. The problem with chess is that you had to visualize the position and as you saw further ahead you sometimes misplaced a piece mentally. Some players, probably all the great ones, could see the position perfectly in their head. Harry's visualization wasn't perfect. Harry flicked the wizard chess board a few times then confirmed his analysis and made his move.

Draco nodded. "I see your point about the _Bludger_ ," Draco said, "but in real life it probably happens more often." While he was talking Draco reached up and snatched the silver knight off the slowly spinning board. The board lurched wildly, but all of the pieces took a few steps around, shifting their way as they shouted advice to each other. After a minute, the board's wobbling subsided. "After all, in the real world everyone has their own view of the situation. And their own information. If something strange happens, the others compensate."

Draco counter-attacked, as expected. It was a complex position and Harry fell into a deep thought. After a few minutes Draco started spinning the toy between them, poking at pieces with his finger and watching board wobble as the pieces adjusted. Normally it was the right of the person thinking to talk or fidget, so as not to distract the other, but Harry had taken a long time (by their standards) to move, so he didn't press the point.

Harry picked up his megaphone to make his move when suddenly his robes started to constrict and changed color to white. Harry saw Draco flick his wand and say _Somnium_.

* * *

 _March 7th_

Harry heard them coming down the stairs. He was in a basement … somewhere. He didn't recognize it in the hours he'd been awake. Harry grunted as loudly as he could. He was bundled into an Acromantula web, naked except for underwear, trussed tightly onto a cot. His eyes were uncovered, at least. He didn't know how long he'd been awake.

 _Since Draco stunned him._

He'd used the time to try to figure out what was going on.

The 'how' part didn't take much effort. The robes he'd been wearing were a gift from Draco, and Draco had studied fixed transfiguration. He could switch his own clothes from suit to robes and back. Presumably he'd made one set of robes out of web and had given them to Harry at Christmas. Or switched them out at a later time. Harry might have been able to win a duel with Draco, but being ambushed while in a constricting web, he hadn't had a chance.

A part of Harry admired the elegance of the ambush, while he struggled in the web. But his struggles had merely confirmed that boys his age couldn't fight their way out of strong webs.

Draco had made his move now, but what move?

 _The real question was 'why?'_ Slytherin said inside his head. _  
_

 _Had Draco done this as part of an elaborate scheme to test Peverell?_ Gryffindor offered, but the rest of the voices shouted him down. _Well, we can hope_ , Gryffindor said quietly. But Harry knew it was wishful thinking. It lacked all sense of proportion. Draco might overreach when provoked – he'd done just last year when torturing Harry - but he wouldn't spend ten galleons to win a Knut. Draco hadn't done this out of anger, or fear, or pride. The planning clearly marked this as a plot, or contingency plan, and nothing had changed recently enough to warrant springing the trap.

 _Nothing you're aware of_ , _anyway,_ said Ravenclaw.

 _Had Draco finally decided we're Voldemort?_ said Hufflepuff.

That risk had always existed, that Draco would reach the wrong conclusion.

 _No,_ answer Slytherin. _If he had we'd be dead right now. Or worse._

Harry's voices bickered amongst themselves and Harry - or at least, the internal Harry supervisor voice - went off in another direction.

 _Was this some lesson?_ Draco and Harry had taught each other lessons, and if so, this would be memorable. As the minutes stretched into hours that seemed less and less likely. Harry's stomach knotted itself. Harry started reaching out from the obvious facts and cast his memory back into the previous semester. The previous summer. Last year. Nothing came up. Perhaps he could ask Draco when he got out, but Harry didn't imagine Draco would be talkative.

 _If I can even find him. Draco had spent last summer looking for Snape._ Harry and Draco had discussed strategies and steps necessary to avoid being discovered. Harry didn't know how long he'd been out, but if Draco didn't want to be found, Harry couldn't find him. The more worrying thought was that if Draco didn't want Harry to be found ... although he had a few contingencies, but they might take a while.

 _Had Draco discovered Harry's betrayals?_ That seemed likely. Moody had read Draco's mind under orders, and now Harry regretted not having him dig deeper. If Draco had discovered that fact, although it wasn't at all clear how, he may consider it an act of war.

"And in the real world everyone has their own view of the situation. And their own information." Harry remembered Draco's voice, during the chess game. _Had he misjudged Draco so badly? Had Draco misjudged him?_

Harry spent his time reviewing everything he knew, and kept coming to the same conclusion. _I need more information. I'm missing a fact._ He then considered the details about more. Why had Draco used that room to ambush Harry? _Well, it would naturally intrigue me. The ambush over the game of chess would appeal to Draco's sense of style, but he'd ignore that if necessary._

Harry had decided that the most likely reason was that the room was out of the way when he heard Gregory's voice shouting from the top of the stairs, "I see him" and Hermione and Gregory raced down the stairs. It took them a while to cut Harry out of the web, he'd lost the sense of time. Harry could see that Hermione had been crying. Gregory's face was set in stone. _Just like when he rescued Draco_. Hermione blushed when the web finally parted, but Harry just reached up and ripped the webbing off his mouth "What's the situation?"

Hermione said, "We're … not sure. We repelled the attack on Peverell. The chalice is safe. But there's a lot of damage, and not just there, but Hogwarts, too." Harry noticed that her thoughts weren't nearly as organized as usual. He realized the implication right as she said, "At least three Aurors are dead, and some students, too. They think they can save Mad-Eye. I was too late, Harry, I'm sorry ... Draco probably thought he was protecting me but he should have known ... "

"Where's Draco?" Harry asked, and Hermione sucked in her breath and bit her lip.

Gregory shook his head then turned away and went back up the stairs. Harry looked around, he didn't recognize the room. It looked like a small basement apartment, with some goods stored along the walls. There was only a picture, but the picture showed what looked to be a closed cave mouth, rocks jumbled all around the front, perched precariously along the frame. Harry start towards the stairs but stopped. There was a second cot lined up beside the wall and set carefully on top of it was a chess set. A muggle chess set, small, made with light and dark brown wood. All of the pieces were set up in the opening position.

Except both kings had been knocked over.

Hermione stopped biting her lip. "Draco and Neville are dead, Harry."

* * *

 **Author's Note** –I had considered a final exam, much like in HPMOR, but honestly I couldn't create a compelling one in any case, Draco's final exam would be composed by Lucius, not Voldemort. You have as much information as Harry (more), but you don't necessarily have all the pieces to fill in all the blanks. But you do have enough information to understand what Draco hoped to achieve. Ignore the tactics, focus on strategy.

A (guest!) reviewer on last chapter mentioned Apollo Robbins, specifically his TED talk and how it applied to attention. That's a good catch, one that Harry would point out, except that Apollo wasn't famous yet. Apollo Robbins is a magician/pickpocket (with at least one published neuropsychology paper co-authorship!) who is an expert on exploiting attention. He likens attention to a security guard watching a row of monitors, but who can only focus on one or two at a time. His TED talk ("The Art of Misdirection") is one of the legitimately brilliant (as compared to "just interesting") lectures I've seen and well worth the ten minutes.

Also, on a related note, I like reviews.

The game discussed was Averbakh-Kotov, Zurich Candidates Tournament, 1953.

 **Update to the Hot Hand "Fallacy" -** The Wall Street Journal had an article saying that Hot Hands actually do exist, courtesy of Adam Sanjuro, Joshua Miller, and some really unintuitive math. FF doesn't like links, but that should be enough to google if you care.


	50. Thirty-Four Years Later

**Author's Note** \- Based on criticism, it has been suggested that I remove this chapter and repost it later. For now, let me just say that it is entirely skippable. It takes place 34 years later (at the title states), and the next chapter returns to the 'present.' Many readers have complained. For now, I am leaving it. If you do skip it, it should be obvious when you'll need to come back and read it.

* * *

Summer had lingered, but by the time that Harry James Pevel crossed the threshold to Platform Nine and Three Quarters fall had arrived. The muggle world felt cool and serene and not at all humid, and the temperature dropped lower still when he crossed the threshold, trailing his children. His youngest - nine with unkempt blonde hair that resisted all attempts at combing with a quiet defiance - broke away from the family while Luna stared at the steam coming from the locomotive engine, entranced and lost in private memory. She recovered, squeezing Harry's hand and then Luna dashed forward calling "Petunia! Petunia!"

Harry had originally taken her name, but Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres-Lovegood had been a mouthful, so he'd simply changed it to Pevel. That contained all the sounds in the right order and also honoured and symbolically linked him with the Peverells, an added bonus. Technically he kept the name Harry Potter, since he was the Lord of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Potter, but that didn't really matter much anymore.

But his biological parents had probably cared, and some factions of wizarding society still placed stock on these things, so Harry sometimes used his formal title, especially during contentious Wizengamot sessions. But most days he was simply Harry Pevel.

Harry looked around the station, at all the children running back and forth, gossiping, hugging, trading stories of their summer vacation, and otherwise acting like children. Well, like normal children, anyway. After his first year he'd stopped coming early to the train rides, because the pressure of being The Boy Who LIved made it an exhausting experience, although he would always remember the first train ride and meeting Hermione. After his second year, Harry couldn't afford to waste a full day going to and from Hogwarts each semester, and had simply skipped the trips completely. He'd never been one to enjoy crowds of people, in any case.

A familiar couple waved and Harry waved back. Harry's middle son called out to them. "Hi Aunt Hermione! Uncle Ron!" Michael ran off and hugged his aunt, then went to play with young Draco Weasley. Harry started to head over to them, quietly flanked by Mr. Goyle and Mr. Crabbe. Harry could ignore the rest of the parents on the platform, confident that they were scanning the crowd for threats. Gregory had argued against a public appearance, but Harry had overruled them. _Correction,_ said Ravenclaw, _Gregory acquiesced._

Harry hadn't been physically attacked in nearly two decades. They still worried. In many ways they still blamed themselves for not seeing the attacks coming in the first place, even though there had been no earthly way for them to know, during the early years.

Harry looked down at his oldest, who had trailed along beside him. "Why don't you join the other children?" Harry didn't hide the pang he felt letting him go off, even thought it was only to Hogwarts.

Harry had scheduled Albus for the first train. Hogwarts required two trains now, class sizes being so much larger. Harry could have taken him personally, but wouldn't dream of denying his son the full experience of the Hogwarts he loved. Albus had asked why they needed a train to get to Dad's office and Harry had started to explain, but had just shrugged.

"What if they don't think I'm smart, Dad? What if they don't put me in Ravenclaw?" Albus said, with the slightest hint of desperation in his voice.

Harry crouched down so that he was looking up at his son and stared at his beautiful blue eyes. "Why are you worried about that?" Harry's long white beard touched the ground. At first, the beard had started as an affectation, just playing the part for the country of the wise old wizard he'd hoped to become someday. Now, it seemed natural, and he rarely thought about it, but he instinctively scooped it up off the concrete. Albus met his eyes, and Harry saw the worry.

"Because … because! I'm not you, Dad! Everyone says you're the most clever, that you invented cleverness, and they'll expect me to... you know." Albus hyperventilated slightly, before getting his breathing under control. "I can't live up to it..."

"You, Albus Quirinus Pevel are named after two great men. Quirinius Quirrel made Offense against the Dark Arts what it is today. He was a Slytherin. And Albus Dumbledore had both my jobs and did them both better. And he was a _Gryffindor."_

Albus gulped a breath. "A Gryffindor? Really? But they ..." He stopped.

Harry shook his head. "The houses show your most dominant trait, or the one you must wish to improve. But no person can be reduced to a single adjective. The houses are only a shorthand, and then are great wizards and witches in every house. Remember what I say. _If I can see farther than those who came before me_..."

" _It's only because I stand on the shoulders of giants. Not literal ones. Figurative._ " Albus said, finishing the quote. He hugged his father and ran after his mother to say goodbye.

Hermione walked over, looking completely normal, although she'd cut her hair short over the summer, Harry noted. She'd managed to completely hide her glamour and had even gone so far as to adjust her appearance to look ... mundane. But even before she'd _deglamoured_ with her self-invented potion (the final ingredient was a claw from a Blast-ended Skrewt) the Girl-Who-Revived didn't draw much attention these days. Hermione rarely did anything dangerous and - as far as the public knew - hadn't done anything important in fifteen years. If you'd seen her as a teenager, like Harry had, you'd have imagined her as a a movie star by the time she grew up. In actuality, she didn't stand out or turn heads, and that was mostly by design. She'd had enough with well wishers and followers by the time they'd turned twenty.

Harry didn't really see the woman standing in front of him as she was. In his mind, she was always a teenager. He knew that was a flaw, but it was one he preferred to live with.

Harry had known instantly that Draco's Diary, not his Letter, was the final gambit. Draco's way of ensuring Hermione Granger _helped_ Harry Potter, but always at arm's length. At a distance. As a friend. When he'd finally gotten up his courage and asked her on a date, Hermione agreed they could be more without risking the world. _But we never will be,_ she'd said. If Draco had been around, one of them would have ended up with Hermione. But with Draco gone...

Harry reminded Hermione too much of those they'd lost. He could move past it, but Hermione hadn't. She felt much more deeply than he did, a side effect of his coldness. Harry experienced great joy and great loss and felt pain for the damage he'd done. He knew about countless millions he hadn't saved, but lingering on it wasn't useful and didn't help them. Harry planned as carefully as he could, but emotionally lived in each movement, then moved on. At least, he usually did, but seeing Hermione reminded him of his regrets. And he knew the same was true for her.

 _My joys and pain echo constantly_ , she'd said all those years ago. By way of apology.

Harry never understood what she saw in Ron.

After the hugs and handshakes Hermione pulled Harry aside and whispered "I think we should delay repealing the Statute."

Harry Pevel sighed internally then put on his finest wise face, his Albus Dumbledore #2, "We've been over this. If we miss this Convocation, we'll have to wait five years for the next one."

"We are immortal, Harry. There's no rush."

"People will die." Harry didn't cry, not any more, when considering the price his caution had cost. They both knew he felt it, that the disapproval in his voice was real. "What reason do you have?"

"It's Xare, he's looking a bit peaky. I don't think he'll be available, should a problem arise. I'll have limited tactical mobility with all the warding going on." Harry could sense Gregory, just two feet behind him, dividing his attention. Vincent hadn't stopped scanning the crowd, but this was now a security matter and so now they were splitting duties and paying attention to Harry's conversation, since it was no longer just politics. Gregory and Vincent would discuss it amongst themselves, later. _They might even ask my opinion,_ Harry thought.

"Who would attack us, Hermione? I think we've run out of Dark Wizards."

Hermione interrupted. "Sethra Lavode..."

Harry inter-re-upted. "Yes, she lives; but stuck in her mountain for a few hundred years. After that? _I think_ she'll be impressed."

"Harry, doesn't it seem, I don't know, convenient? How everything is working, how the opposition has melted away, to finally be unified after all of that political maneuvering. All the obstacles, all the delays."

Harry considered it.

"No, it doesn't. We spent decades arranging this. How much pain did you go through, dying all those times? How often did we have to prove, time and again, that I wasn't Voldemort. How many did I fail to save? How many shadows we jumped at, just to make sure there was no threat. Now - finally! - we're gaining numbers. We aren't alone. We've pushed the rationality of graduating classes at least one standard deviation to the right. This generation is firmly behind us, they've moved the needle! Albus fears he's not smart enough! _Not smart enough,_ Hermione. And you know he'd have done well, been a General by 3rd year, back in the day."

Harry looked down. "Now he's just an average wizard boy."

Harry saw that Hermione knew how much it hurt him to admit that. He hoped she knew how much wisdom he'd gained over the last decade. Draco had been right in this, that for too long Harry's strength had been its own corresponding weakness. Now having his own family had provided balance and given Harry a lot of practical insight into how other people reacted to him. _Draco came so close to being right about everything._ Harry realized he'd drifted into thought and refocused on Hermione, as the prefects starting herding the first years onto the train.

"No, Hermione, it does not appear convenient to me at all. And once I finish this task, I will have time to rescue Dumbledore, and beg his forgiveness."

"The last part is irrelevant, and you know it..."

Harry Potter shrugged, conceding the point, but Hermione knew what he'd meant. By unspoken agreement, they agreed to let work wait until family was gone and the rushed around the station, hugging kids and greeting old friends. They'd save their strategizing and politicking for a few hours, once they were back at the office. They'd saved most of the Wizarding world.

Soon, they'd save everyone else.

All was well.

* * *

 **Author's Note -** If you read the previous chapter during the first day it was posted, two sections were (near) duplicates of part of Chapter 45 and have been removed. There was no grand plan on that, it was just an oversight.

And yes, I'm going to go back to the 'present' in the next chapter. (I'm not a monster).


	51. Good Words

_March 10th_

Harry woke with a start at Hermione's touch on his shoulder, lifting his face off the desk while blindly groping for the grey knobby wand. Hermione had already rolled it well away from his hand. After the brief second of shock, Harry relaxed and mumbled _sorry_. He rubbed his hands through his hair while his elbows and shoulders made strained clicking and snapping sounds.

Sleeping face down on a desk was suboptimal. Harry reached for the wand, stopping his hand a few inches short of it. Nothing happened.

Not that he'd expected it to. _By this point repeating that experiment is desperation, not science,_ Ravenclaw said accusingly. With a sigh Harry pocketed the wand.

"Harry, you need to get ready, " she said. "It's time." Harry didn't say anything. He bit back all the words he felt.

 _It's a waste of time._

 _This is a mere status display, like self-flagellation among the more extreme religious sects. But here we just mentally beat ourselves up instead of suffering physical damage._

 _I need to finish my investigation, to find out if there is going to be another attack._

 _Private grief counts just as much as grief in public._

All Harry's inner voices were speaking at once, a cacophony of jumbled thoughts trying to drown each other out. Hufflepuff spoke. _Humans can't live like that, remember?_ and Harry's mind went silent for almost a full minute.

Hermione had on her formal robes, and if she hadn't slept much Harry certainly couldn't tell by looking at her. Hermione appeared to need less sleep than most people, although she still got tired. Harry suspected that in stressful situations she suffered no ill long term effects from having adrenaline coursing through her blood, so that she could stay awake much longer than a typical teenage girl. Her hair flowed smoothly as she turned her head to look around Harry's study, full of transcripts, notes, charts, and quickly drawn timelines. New documents, as the scorch marks on the walls and semi-melted shelving had been hurriedly replaced.

 _Even at times like this, she looks beautiful._ Harry quickly pushed that thought aside. He couldn't afford a sudden burst of puberty. Not now. He reached for his new set of formal robes to change, they both knew they'd be late if he didn't hurry.

Hermione had walked over to a corkboard that Harry had used to pin notes and examined it carefully while Harry slipped into his formal robes. Times ran along the top from afternoon of Sunday March 6th until Monday Evening. Persons of Interest ran down the side. Harry's timeline was simple. He'd been smuggled out of Hogwarts, unconscious. Hermione double checked the information on her timeline, if anything was wrong it might mess up the investigation. But it was perfect. Most of the timelines were being filled in as part of the investigation. Draco's position at times had been recorded, several appearances in the hallway, his meeting with Hermione, there was a seperate detailed timeline on the Battle of Peverell and lots of lines and question marks there, ending with the discovery of Draco's body. There were large gaps.

"Any ideas?" Hermione asked, still focused on the corkboard. She wanted to apologize again, for not stopping things when she had a chance, but Harry had simply shrugged and said it was his fault.

"I've pinned down a lot of the how." Harry's voice sounded normal to himself. He wondered if it sounded that way to Hermione, or if it sounded colder. He'd had to summon the cold more and more, these last few days. "There are still some puzzles, and a lot of things that confuse me. But mainly ... I don't get the why. After the ... After we're done we'll go talk to Lockhart."

"You can call it a funeral, Harry" she said quietly.

"I'm not sure he's dead, Hermione," Harry said as he slid into his robes. "I mean, it's amazing Draco survived as long he did. But since he did, he had the near perfect mix of tools to fake his own death, and that can't be an accident..."

Hermione must have heard the swish of his robes, or some other indication that he was finished and dressed, because she spun around to glare at him.

"Harry James Potter. You will _not_ mention anything to that effect at the funeral. Imagine what it would do to everyone. _To Narcissa_. Not to mention the Longbottoms. Outside of this room you will not breathe a word of Draco being alive until you have solid proof."

Her voice echoed throughout the room for a second, and then she continued, quieter. "Better for everyone to think he's dead and then get a shocked when he re-appears. Far better than false hope. Believe me."

Harry nodded, accepting the rebuke even though he'd had no intention of telling anyone. _I'd just been discussing the problem. In any case, he attacked me,_ Harry thought, but he recognized this as one of those times when other people would just call him insensitive if he discussed his thoughts. They left his study, and Harry continued to review what he knew.

Harry had already rejected many hypothesis. The obvious one was that this was an attack against him, but Draco could have done that without attacking Peverell. At much less risk. Had the point been for Draco to fake his death? Why? Draco could have done that much easier, during a break from school. Harry turned this over and again it felt like he was missing information. He kept coming back to the fact that Draco hadn't killed him, but attacked him. Harry shook his head. He needed another angle of attack.

Consider the equipment Draco used, ignoring the goblin forged items for now. Where had Draco gotten all the potions? They seemed excessive, but then Harry realized he didn't really know how much these things cost. Still, beyond Draco's capability to brew. _Had he contacted Snape? If so, he could have an arsenal of potions._ After a moment or two of thought, Harry shook his head. Unlikely, and a complexity penalty to boot. _Just assume that Draco bought everything, he was rich_. Harry frowned and tried to consider another direction to view the problem from.

Harry and Hermione walked in silence, descending down the staircases, past the burnt rooms and missing tapestries, until they arrived at the main level of Hogwarts and joined the procession of students and teachers just as they headed outside.

Overhead the sky was a bright, beautiful blue, with not a cloud in sight, and flocks of birds frolicked in the spring air.

* * *

Students sniffled. Most Hufflepuffs were openly crying. Vincent had stood next to the rejuvenated Augusta Longbottom, who could have passed for a fifth year, and Neville's parents. They had cycled through shock, confusion, grief and anger as the ceremony went on before finally breaking down into quiet sobs during Pomona Sprout's eulogy. Few of the words registered with Harry, even though he'd stopped thinking about the investigation.

Now that services were over students milled around, hugging and talking in low murmurs. Professor Slughorn, in resplendent black robes, silk and flowing like water around his form, spoke clearly above the crowd.

"Slytherins."

Slughorn stood immobile for a second then turned and headed back indoors, away from the crowd and the grass and the rest of the mourners. As he turned he pulled his cowl over his round face. Professor Slughorn walked at a deliberate pace, and the students of his house fell in behind him, a solemn procession. Harry looked towards Hermione, who'd gone over to say a few words to Alice Longbottom. He didn't want to join her, didn't want to face them. Harry stood torn between the two groups. _I don't have the words, I don't have any power here._ Hermione motioned for him to go with a small gesture.

Vincent stood talking to Gregory, and then they both joined the procession. Professor Slughorn stood at the entrance back into Hogwarts. As each students passed by they covered their head with their hood, reminding Harry of medieval monks. Harry made his decision, falling in beside Gregory and Vincent, pulling the hood over his head as he passed into Hogwarts. They walked silently, although not down into the dungeons. The procession veered off, and Harry realized they were heading to the Muggle Studies lecture hall. All Slytherins walked together, each alone in thought for the entire descent.

They arrived back into the large hall. The map for the Muggle Naval simulation stood, empty and solemn behind the lecture podium. The students lined up in a large semi-circle around the podium, squeezing in, with almost no shifting and only the occasional cough or noise as Harry filed in and took the next available space. Harry stood silent, wondering at how easily everyone coordinated. The instinct to blend in, to follow the crowd turned this into a solemn event and Harry didn't want to be the one to ruin it. The first years came and took the center area in front of the podium. Professor Slughorn had apparently fallen in behind them once they'd entered Hogwarts. He entered the room last. No, next to last as Narcissa Malfoy stepped foot in the room, in simple black robes, her face still covered by the veil she'd worn through the funeral. _Well,_ thought Harry, _he'd invited all Slytherins._ Narcissa hesitated, and stayed by the door.

Professor Slughorn walked to the podium, trailed by a walking chest that Harry hadn't seen before.

He stepped behind the lecturn and threw back his hood, and for the first time Harry could see the pained look on his face. Professor Slughorn had said a few words during the funerals, he'd praised Neville and Draco with a calm ferocity during his brief eulogy, but he'd shown no grief. Now he wiped his cheeks and motioned for the students to reveal their faces and Harry pulled back his hood, he felt ashamed at how many other wet faces there were in the crowd, and his cheeks flushed red.

Professor Slughorn opened his chest, which had stopped beside him, and pulled out a bottle and a goblet.

"This wine was a gift from a former student, one of four casks liberated from Grindelwald's cellars shortly after Headmaster Dumbledore defeated him, and on a happier day I'd tell you the story of how I got a cask, but it doesn't matter now." Professor Slughorn pulled out several more bottles. "I told myself that I'd only drink it when I accomplished something great. So I've been waiting. I don't particularly want to keep them anymore, and I can think of nothing better than to drink them right now."

Normally, the students would have broken into small conversations, gasped at the implications, but most everyone remained silent and the few students that started to say something stopped quickly when the glares of the others silenced them. Professor Slughorn dramatically pulled out a scroll out from inside his robes and rolled it open. He examined it for a second, then sighed and shook his head before rolling the scroll up.

"I had a prepared speech, but there were many kind words said at the funerals," said Professor Slughorn, carefully opening the first bottle and pouring some into his goblet, "and there were many true words, and they were lovely. But there are some words that should only be said in private."

He took a deep drink of the wine, and Harry saw his hands shaking as he took the first sip. Horace Slughorn swallowed the wine in a greedy gulp, paused for a second, and then slammed the goblet back onto the podium.

"Slytherin is the House of Failure," he said in a booming voice as he poured another glass of wine.

"I have this wine because I have done nothing of note, and I have done nothing of note because the vast majority of my ambitions were petty. I only had one great ambition: to mentor great students, you see. To live through their victories. And I have taught and nurtured talent, wonderful talent. I would brag and gloat on them, and wheedle my students into becoming more. They say that Slytherin is the House of Ambition, but to have ambitions means chasing your dreams. And many of us never catch them. But what is worse, what is oh so much worse is to accomplish everything you ever wanted."

"Then you wake up one morning and discover that you only possess things you _used_ to want," he said, then drank a second cup of wine, and this time his hands were steady.

"I wanted to mentor the Greatest Slytherin since Salazar and I have now failed three times, in three different ways. For David Monroe I was just a callow new Potions Professor, and I had no idea what he would become. I missed that opportunity, so I kept my eyes focused on the next great one. And I spotted the next great fighting wizard and poured my energy into helping him. _He_ went on to murder so many people, and I didn't see it coming. And to my shame, I did nothing to stop the monster I'd help create."

Professor Slughorn paused to drink another cup of wine, and finally the room gasped, as the implication was recognized. Harry started to say something, to try and tell Professor Slughorn that it wasn't his fault, that nothing could have fixed Voldemort, to ease the man's pain. But he dare not reveal what he knew, and if Professor Slughorn wanted to get drunk and drown his sorrows after a funeral, Harry understood. Well, he didn't understand the impulse but recognized that it was a common - even typical - response to death.

"And now, again, I recognize a student who had drive and an ambition - a worthy ambition, not like mine. A student born into a Noble House but nobody _nobody_ is born into greatness. You become great by work, courage, cleverness and yes, by ambition. And now I've failed a 3rd time. Because today I buried Draco Malfoy. To Draco," he said, raising his goblet.

"To Draco," the room said in a chant, except for a quiet mewling sob that came from the doorway. Professor Slughorn drained his goblet and then pulled out a set of glasses, small thin glasses that Harry associated with champagne. "Does anyone else wish to say anything?" Professor Slughorn asked, as he poured some wine.

Gregory stepped forward and took the first proffered glass, then turned to face the rest of the students, who fell silent again. "When Dad explained to me, how he worked for Lucius Malfoy. I ... I was appalled. To be in someone's shadow, to be someone's _assistant_? To never be known for what _I_ did. But as I got to know Draco, it didn't seem bad. He was my friend and Who wouldn't help their friend? But still, I could assist him while being my own person, flying for England in the World Cup," Gregory said, as the crowd gave a small cheer with a few scattered whistles. "I could help him, but the name of Gregory Goyle would also be known throughout the world, while Draco Malfoy's name would be relegated to hushed whispers in political circles."

Gregory paused, and when he spoke again his voice broke. "And now nobody will remember him, and _my fame_ will outlive _his_. And it tastes like ashes in my mouth."

Gregory quickly drank the wine, face scrunched up, and then set down the glass on the podium. Professor Slughorn refilled it and handed it back to Gregory who had a confused look on his face until Professor Slughorn motioned that he was to hand the glass to someone else. Gregory stood there for a moment, looking around the room, but Blaise Zabini stepped forward and extended his hand.

Gregory passed the wine to him.

"I thought I had a rivalry with Draco; I was the glorious underdog fighting the scion of House Malfoy. I could see how we'd spar, over the years, but I'd subtly outmaneuver him to become Minister of Magic. I'd save the day. I'd get the girl. And now ...," Blaise's voice trailed off for a second, and he almost took a sip of the wine before quickly lowering the glass, "... now I know that when he invited me into his circle, it wasn't just a gambit, it was sincere. Because I don't know what he was doing, but it was bigger than me. I was playing a child's game. Draco probably thought it was cute. To Draco."

"To Draco," the room answered, as Blaise took just a sip of the wine, then held the glass out. Hestia Carrow took it.

"Why should he have gotten someone back, when I lost so much?" she said through tears, looking directly at Narcissa Malfoy. "I'm sorry. He got you back, even though it was more his family's fault than mine, but he came out unscathed. Maybe that was just another mask..." she took a sip of wine before remembering to add "To Draco," and while the room responded she passed the glass along then went over to Narcissa, who spoke to her quietly, before they embraced. Professor Slughorn had poured a few more glasses, which were slowly making their way around the room.

Daphne Greengrass held up a glass, and the room shifted its attention to her. Harry looked at her, at her soft green cheeks that had stayed dry throughout this entire day. _She really is lovely_ , Harry thought. "It is right and proper for us to remember our friend. Draco would have wanted us to remember Neville Longbottom, too. Draco plotted with him. I suppose that's obvious. I thought he was plotting with me, too, but I guess not, since... Draco once called Neville his conscience, the only one that he felt was brave enough to publicly call Draco out if he thought he was wrong. That may be silly, but I was thinking back to last year, to the troll attack, and while the rest of us were frozen in the Great Hall only Harry tried to rescue Hermione ... and only Neville stood up to him."

"And now there are such terrible rumours floating around, and some people are saying Draco attacked Hogwarts, and some are saying that he saved it, and all I can think of is ... _Whatever Draco was planning, Neville thought it was a good idea, too._ To Draco and Neville."

Everyone said "To Draco," but only about half of the room added "and Neville," Harry noted, while reflecting on Daphne's speech. When Harry interviewed her yesterday Daphne had told him about the meeting in January, when Draco proposed going after the Hall of Prophecies. No doubt whatever Draco had told Neville in their private sessions had been very convincing. Draco had probably dosed himself with _Veritaserum ..._ but that still didn't explain what Draco had planned, why he hadn't just killed Harry if he'd thought he was Voldemort.

Professor Slughorn had started mingling around the room while Daphne spoke, and now he was standing besides Harry. He offered a glass of butterbeer, and Harry looked down at it quizzically, his train of thought broken.

"Unless you'd prefer wine?" Slughorn said.

"No, this is fine," Harry replied. _I don't need to cloud my judgment, especially now._ Harry felt the rest of the room silence, as glasses stopped moving around and people turned to him.

"Everyone thinks I can just snap my fingers to fix things," he said, haltingly. "Draco knew better. I don't think Slytherin is the House of Failure. Humanity is. We get so many things wrong. A Muggle Prime Minister once said about America, ' _That it always does the right thing, after it tries every other possibility_ ' but it's not just one country. We stumble around, groping in the dark without a torch, doing the best we can. Is it any wonder we bang our knees or fall down stairs?"

Harry paused. He knew, at some level, that this plot had been directed against himself. Harry believed, but couldn't yet prove, that Draco may be alive. But if he was alive then he'd certainly planned to fake his own death. One of Draco's mantras was that _A good move has multiple purposes_ and Harry kicked himself for just now realizing that Draco's death had unified House Slytherin, and there was no way Harry Potter would splinter them apart and undo Draco's (possibly) final plot.

"There are people who should have seen the attempted theft of Merlin's Chalice coming and stopped it. They were caught by surprise, and some of them are dead. Maybe I should have seen it coming and snapped my fingers, but I don't actually have any powers. Draco stumbled into this attack and managed to stop several adult wizards. He raised the alarm. He should have run away, but _he pretended to lose to the attackers_ and then struck at a critical moment."

The students nodded, recalling the lesson they'd all learned in one form or another from the second defense lecture. Meanwhile, part of Harry recoiled at what he was saying. Harry still didn't understand all of Draco's plots. Publicly lauding Draco's plot was - at the very least - incautious, but it had been several days and they'd rounded up all the surviving attackers. Draco's plot had taken months to set up, and he couldn't vary it now without revealing he was alive. There was a risk in praising Draco. He'd set up the chess set where Harry would find it, and the message seemed clear. _Draco was taking us both out of the game._

But in spite of all that, Harry still considered Draco a friend. He'd plot against him, but he couldn't bring himself to sully Draco's name. Especially not with Narcissa Malfoy in the room, grieving. If nothing else, she was innocent and didn't deserve this pain. Harry knew it was irrational to go the extra step and praise Draco instead of just mouthing a platitude.

"We heard from some Auror's at the funeral, praising Draco and Neville. I think when the truth comes out, their names will live on. To my friends. To Draco and Neville."

Harry noticed - as he drank the butter beer - that everyone responded "To Draco and Neville." Harry grimaced as he finished the glass. Harry knew butter-beer was non-alcoholic, but was it supposed to taste more like beer or more like a desert? Not that he had much in the way to compare it to. Professor Slughorn took the glass back and refilled it, moving among the students.

"I don't think Slytherin is the House of Failure," Vincent said. "I'm not more successful because I left. Maybe, maybe I failed Draco because I left. Not because of Slytherin. He wanted me to go, he wanted me to be happy and it cost him. I was supposed to protect him and I was gone...I'm so sorry..."

Gregory put his arm around Vince's shoulders as he was speaking, and hugged him and Lady Malfoy moved to join them. There was a silence, not awkward Harry thought, but extended, before a small voice said.

"I didn't want to be in Slytherin, not really." Everyone turned to Colin Creevey, who held a glass up high and spoke in a surprisingly steady voice for a first year addressing the rest of the house.

"You were following Harry Potter," chuckled Professor Slughorn. "So when ..."

"No!" Colin said, interrupting. "No. I was trying to follow Hermione Granger, but then she switched houses and when I tried to switch the Sorting Hat accused me of being too sneaky and sent me here..."

Colin didn't get to finish, because by the time he'd gotten halfway through his sentence Professor Slughorn's chuckles had turned into belly laughs and the rest of the room joined in and laughed uproariously. Narcissa's laughter sounded pure, like the ringing of wind chimes. Harry laughed so hard his throat started hurting.

"It wasn't so bad. I mean, I wasn't treated worse than any other first year, which is pretty bad, I guess." The room laughed some more at that. "But then came the Purple-Green war, and I know how a lot of you felt. Mad that I got to be the General, even though it was just random. And then I got murdered. But afterwards, I realized something. Harry could have taken over from me any time, like Daphne said. He probably should have, he was a better General. Harry was being polite, he was holding back."

"But Draco treated me just like any other enemy. Draco didn't condescend to me, he tried to crush me in every way he knew how and _Draco got me killed_. And then, since it was just a game, he came by later and told me that I'd done a good job and gave me some advice for next time. Maybe he thought I was a joke, but he never treated me like one. To Draco."

Pansy Parkinson had raised her glass during Colin's speech. The room barely finished "To Draco," when she started talking. Harry had spent the latter part of Colin's speech suppressing a cough, and now he could no longer help himself and was coughing quite loudly, doubled over.

"Harry?" said Gregory, "Do you need some water?" just as the fire in his throat spread to his chest and arms.

"No, I just..." Harry couldn't finish the sentence before his body spasmed with another fit of coughs. Unable to talk, Harry started signing with his right hand, getting out B-E-Z before his fingers spasmed uncontrollably and he fell to his knees. Harry heard several shouts. Professor Slughorn cast a spell Harry recognized as a linking spell from the Muggle War Simulation, but _that didn't make sense_. Several students rushed out the door or summoned their Patronus to fetch help. Someone was trying to push something into his mouth, and Harry opened his eyes to see Professor Slughorn looming in front of him, saying something about poison.

 _But the most likely poisoner would be Slughorn,_ Harry thought. _He'd provided the drinks._ Harry didn't have fine motor control but he jerked his arm and slapped the stone away out of Professor Slughorn's hands and screamed _No!_ although it came out as a wail.

Two seconds later several spells knocked Professor Slughorn to the ground beside him, unblocking Harry's line of sight. Professor Slughorn raised his wand at Harry but several students rushed between them, and he didn't fire. With Slughorn no longer kneeling in front of him, Harry could see clear across the room.

The map on the wall now showed not the standard map for the Muggle Naval Simulation, but the room's layout. Names rushed across the display. _Gregory Goyle_ and _Vincent Crabbe -_ both written in elegant calligraphy - moved from besides the podium towards _Tom Riddle_. _Goyle and Crabbe_ moved away from _Narcissa Malfoy_ , who stood off in the corner of the room. The poison made thinking difficult, nothing made sense and then Harry saw the real Narcissa in the corner of his eye, facing away from him, unmoving. Staring up at the map on the wall and he focused on the name _Tom Riddle_ and in a flash _Harry understood._ Vincent and Gregory were pouring spells into Horace Slughorn, although he appeared to already be unconscious. _(That doesn't make sense,_ thought Ravenclaw, _a Professor should be able to withstand two second years_ while the rest of the voices were screaming to Harry that he was dying).

Narcissa said "No," in a quiet voice, lifting her veil to get a better look at the wall.

Harry's vision started contracting, degrees falling away as his focus narrowed. His eyes stung from the smoke. Harry could see foam falling from his mouth to the floor. He heard Hermione's shout and the scream of a Phoenix. Narcissa Malfoy answered with a screaming _No!_ as she whirled and fired a curse as his vision faded completely.


	52. Fully Awake

Excerpts from on-scene depositions taken immediately after the attack on Peverell Hospital on the morning of March 7th, 1993. Recorded by TrueQuill(tm).

 _Igor Karkaroff (3 drops Vs)_ \- "Right when we came in some Auror threw the Chalice and told us to take it and go, just not to hurt the patients. I killed him and continued with the assault. It was an obvious distraction. Aurors that well armed doesn't just give up right away, even in a hostage situation. No, Lockhart didn't tell me the Chalice was a fake before. Honestly, it's an insulting plan."

.

 _Auror Alexander Williams (1 drop Vs)_ \- "And then he went flying past me, casting Auror grade spells! I knew he'd been unconscious earlier, but that Malfoy boy was awake and fighting like a demon. Totally fearless. I can't understand it. No, I  wasn't Confounded, I'm telling you..."

.

 _Phillip Cerci (3 drops Vs)_ \- "...well, we saw Malfoy's body on the way in, the Auror's probably dropped him in the initial attack. We took up a defensive position against the hallway to Hogwarts, there were professors behind us right away. No idea how they caught us. Adolphus said your backups were crossing the wards into Hogwarts, so we had to defend to give the others time to take the Chalice so it was busy. I was right next to Selwyn and Septavia got killed early in the cross fire, and damned if not a few minutes later Malfoy charges in, cusses out Selwyn. Actually cusses him out. Selwyn's killed for less, but the boy probably thought it was Igor and he's screaming about how we screwed up and searching for Septavia's wand, then he disappeared to help get the Stone, and several minutes later it came flying out, and I thought we'd done it..."

.

 _Auror 'Mike' Li (1 drop Vs)_ \- "...I thought we were dead when the Fiendfyre started. Backup instantly cut off and the walls were melting. I'd followed protocol, but after another minute we're out gunned, Bahry's dead, and I'm cut off from everyone else. Just me, a few patients, and the unconscious Malfoy. Someone, maybe Prabat, had moved the civilians away from the Fiendfyre. I thought I was dead. Ennervating Malfoy saved my life. "

.

 _Igor Karkaroff (3 drop Vs)_ \- "Why did we fail? We lost the element of surprise and our plan fell apart, and it was chaos. We almost pulled it off anyway. If he [Draco Malfoy] hadn't died, we might have..."

.

 _Hermione Granger (1 drop Vs)_ \- "Because he was _Impieriused_! I don't know who did it. A professor obviously, Hogwart's has wards. Draco wouldn't help them. I've heard the other Aurors, Draco fought against the attack."

 _Interrogator_ \- How do you explain the fact that Draco went through the Thief's Downfall, which ends any _Imperius_ and then did not raise the alarm and spent 10 minutes scouting the hospital.

 _Hermione Granger (1 drop Vs)_ \- "I can't. I need to go find Harry. I've given my statement. Let go of me, this is important. (Shouting): Headmistress! ... I'll ... don't ... let go! Now!"

 _Interrogator_ \- "[Redacted, incivility related]! (gasping) Stop her! Stop her!"

 _[End Transcript]_

* * *

Harry Potter opened his eyes and stared blankly up at the ceiling. The dark world came into focus, the only light a fiery chicken-like head staring down at him. The phoenix crooned softly, wings spread wide as if to shield the boy below him from the flaws of the world dropping on him like rain.

"Fawkes," Harry croaked, "Where were you on the morning of March 7th?"

Fawkes looked at him, twisting his head quizzically from side to side, all the while singing.

"Good Morning, Mr. Potter." Harry glanced around. It was night time in the Hogwarts infirmary. He didn't see anyone else around, although several of the nearby beds were occupied. The closest was occupied by a rather large body, as far as Harry could tell. An adult, face hidden under blankets. Harry pulled himself up into a sitting position, and stared at the man sitting in a small wooden chair beside his bed.

"Professor Asimov, what day is it? Why are you here?"

"It's the morning of the thirteenth. Almost five in the morning. I was keeping your father company, but Madam Pomfrey slipped him something in his water to help him sleep. I suspect if he hadn't taken it they'd have done something more ... drastic. You aren't allowed non-family visitors, really, but they allowed me as a guest of your parents, since I'm mostly harmless."

Harry nodded. After a second ambush you didn't have to be Mad-Eye Moody to restrict access, and a squib professor was a safe bedside companion. Particularly if you had Fawkes to raise the alarm if he tried to smother you with a pillow. Harry noticed a folded newspaper sticking out from underneath Professor Asimov's chair. There was a glass of water on the bedside table and Harry drank it greedily.

"Can I read that, Professor?" Harry said, pointing to the newspaper.

"I had to sneak this in, you know. They don't want your parents to know anything and I think they're more than a touch worried about what you'll do when you see it." While he spoke Professor Asimov took the folded up newspaper and handed it over. "Still, now that I've talked to your Father I can guess that it was you who got me this job. And saved my life. The Headmistress wouldn't have had the faintest clue who I am, would she?"

Harry snatched the paper. "So, Dad talked your ear off, did he?"

"Well, he didn't have anyone else to talk to, but yes, he did. He said very flattering things, but of course he's a Professor - a real one - and I'm just an author who got rescued by magicians, so he could tell me some interesting stories..."

While Professor Asimov kept talking Harry scanned yesterday's copy of the _Daily Prophet_. There were editorials accusing him of being Voldemort. He'd expected that, Draco's plan had crystallized in his head the instant he'd seen the image of Fred and George's map projected for all of Slytherin House (and Narcissa Malfoy) to see. Surprisingly there were a number of more moderate editorials, saying that even if Harry Potter was a soul-copy, the fault rested with the government officials who 'aided and abetted him,' and had proven themselves untrustworthy because of their lack of due diligence. These editorials referred to the prior Daily Prophet's stunning expose on Harry Potter's influence on Hogwarts and the Ministry.

There were calls for investigations and further demands to open the Hall of Prophecy once and for all to resolve this.

Draco, or his accomplices, had set up a debate with two sides:

 _EITHER_ Harry Potter was Voldemort and should be killed _OR_ Harry Potter probably wasn't actually Voldemort, but just to be safe should be kept well away from the halls of power, and anyone who had ever helped him should be stripped of all titles.

 _Draco framed the debate so that even actual innocence implies guilt,_ Harry's inner Slytherin whistled appreciatively. _He's arguing that they should have known you were a risk and kept you at arms length._ After a second Harry realized that both of his inner voices were assuming Draco was still alive, but the probability of that had ... well, not drastically increased. But gone up.

The attack had been well planned. Narcissa Malfoy had recognized the name Tom Riddle. _Of course she shouldn't have trusted the information_ , said Ravenclaw.

 _But she was in a foul state of mind, no doubt,_ said Hufflepuff.

Most importantly, there were a bunch of witnesses who probably didn't even register what they'd seen, and almost certainly had not registered it's import. Perhaps someone had noted that the Maurader's Map displayed everyone's name right but Harry, but they'd probably been looking at Harry dying, or Vincent and Crabbe attacking Professor Slughorn, or later on at Narcissa raging. They probably saw the name _Tom Riddle,_ but it didn't register. And in any case the map display was used for simulations. Why, it routinely generated lies.

It would never occur to an Auror to obliviate or memory charm the students, and the information needed to determine it was necessary wouldn't have made it up the chain. There were ways it could have been prevented, but Slughorn - as the attacker - could have countermeasures.

Judging from the Daily Prophet, he'd had them in place. There was a lengthy article on all that was publicly known about _Tom Riddle, and comparing those facts with what was known about Harry Potter._ There weren't many details of the attack. That made sense, the news of his attack came out in the prior edition. These were reaction pieces.

"What happened ... after I passed out?"

"Well, they arrested Horace of course. Put him in Gilderoy's cell, I'm told. Lady Malfoy smashed the place up pretty well, but they let her go."

"But she...," Harry started to say _she attacked me_. But he'd passed out, he didn't know what she'd done. It certainly _looked_ like she was about to attack Harry. Or perhaps Xare or Hermione.

Professor Asimov looked down, abashed. "Augusta vouched for her. Threw a fit. Said that she'd have attacked you herself if she'd been there and seen what Narcissa saw."

Harry considered. A grieving widow, straight after her only son's funeral, just seeing compelling evidence that the butcher who murdered her son and her husband was alive. A crime, yes, but hardly pre-meditated. _Assuming that she was actually surprised by the news._ Any competent lawyer could keep Narcissa out of jail in a muggle court, at least pending the trial. Mix in wizard politics and it made sense that Amelia Bones released her, lacking a smoking gun. _Which wouldn't exist if Narcissa were actually surprised, and certainly wouldn't if she wasn't._

Harry nodded, then folded the newspaper up and dropped it onto his sheets. There were no funeral announcements, and Professor Asimov hadn't said anything, but he needed to check.

"Did anyone die? When I was poisoned?"

"Thankfully not."

Harry spent several moments considering the latest attack on him. Coupled with the newspaper articles it had been revealing. Now Draco's motive was clear. Pieces started clicking into place, first slowly but with growing speed. Harry spent a few minutes thinking, and listening to Fawkes quiet song, before speaking again.

"You don't seem to have any problem with me," Harry said.

"We haven't talked much," Professor Asimov said. In fact, Harry had avoided talking to him, mostly to avoid acting like a starry eyed fan or stupid kid. But also because he didn't want to contaminate the lessons on Muggle Studies, or influence Professor Asimov's views on how to convert magical society to a more rational way of thinking.

So he'd stayed away.

"Draco spoke well of you, a few times. Talking to the other professors and the Headmistress was different. You ... bewilder them. But they're just witches and wizards, and I'm a Science Fiction author. I've seen boys like you for decades. Maybe not quite _so_ smart. But hundreds of dreamers, the ones who just don't fit in. To your teachers, Harry Potter is a mystery. To me, well, I've run into him before. And just now, over the last day, I've spoken to your father, and the stories he tells me reminds me of a Richard Feynman."

"I remind you of _Richard Feynman_?" Harry asked, with unrestrained glee.

"Not in science, although I gather you are well advanced, but in the mindset, attacking problems from unexpected angles. Novel solutions. And, I must admit, your talent for self-promotion. You both leave a trail of amazing stories in your wake as a calling card. But yes, like Feynman. And then I started to think about what possible use you could have for an old writer such as myself, and the only thought I could come up with was that you wanted me as your library and viewed yourself as more Hari Seldon than Harry Potter. Am I right?"

"It sounds kind of arrogant when you put it that way," Harry grumbled.

"Oh, it is arrogant! But Seldon was striving to save the universe, and I see before me a small boy who read my book, and dreamed of saving the universe one day, and then found himself with just that option. How could I possibly think you are evil?"

They shared a laugh, but then Professor Asimov frowned. "But, several of my colleagues who are much more knowledgeable than I am do consider you evil, and at least one tried to murder you. And I can't quite figure out what Draco was planning, but he certainly felt that drastic measures were necessary for some reason, although he never told me why. Come to think of it, one of the first things he did was to warn me that I shouldn't mistake Hogwarts students for normal children, and that what I thought of as games were deadly serious. At the time I just humoured him."

"When was this?"

"The first day of classes."

Harry thought back to the train ride at the beginning of the year, how Draco had said he'd wanted an introduction to Professor Asimov. The sun had started to rise, and the first wisps of daylight streamed in through the window. Madam Pomfrey came by on her rounds and examined Harry for a few minutes, then declared that he still needed to rest. Harry asked her about the poison, but she just frowned and shushed him, said that his prognosis was fine, and told Professor Asimov in no uncertain terms that Harry was not to be pestered. Professor Asimov got up to leave, but as he was walking out he turned back, ignoring Madam Pomfrey's complaint.

"When you do figure this out, you'll explain it to me, won't you?" Professor Asimov's voice had the slightest hint of pleading.

"I promise. Soon. Once they release me, I need to do something, but then..."

Harry nodded as Madam Pomfrey shoved Professor Asimov out the door, while casting _Somnium_ at the small boy with the lightning scar under her care.

* * *

 _8pm_

Harry walked around the room, amazed at the differences. The walls were scorched and melted, and the floor wasn't flat - it warped up and down as you moved from the front to the back, as though the heat had caused the marble itself to start bubbling like pancake batter, and it had frozen in place when the heat had been removed. The walls weren't just scorched black, but purple and green and a few colours Harry didn't have words for. For a moment Harry ignored the people around him, enthralled in the power demonstrated by the damage. He ignored Hermione and Professor Asimov's questions, not even really hearing them at some level. Harry only woke up when he heard Amelia Bones quiet voice come through the door.

"And Minerva, I've got Ministers screaming at me, the Wizengamot is in a snit. Rumours of centaurs barricading themselves in caves to avoid having to look at the sky, Poland is demanding that we move the Chalice somewhere safe, Goblins are sending a delegation for some reason, and don't even get me started on the Americans, why the Salem Institute of Witches..." she stopped abruptly when she realized that the room had more than just Harry Potter.

"Mr. Potter," said Headmistress McGonagall, walking beside Madam Bones. "Ah, good evening, Professor Asimov. Miss Granger."

"Headmistress, Chief Warlock. I've got some answers, not everything but I know you're under considerable political pressure, so I thought I'd walk you through the main points. Then you can hold a press conference or call a special session of the Wizengamot, as you see fit."

Amelia Bones nodded, but there was a frown on her face. "I can hardly complain about the Girl-Who-Revived being here, she was a witness. And frankly people love her. But I protest Professor Asimov's presence. He's not even a wizard, and I don't see why he's here."

"Amaneunsis," Harry said automatically, then hastily explained "Not in the strict sense of being a note taker, more of in the literary sense that he's my ... living memory, if you will. Call him my conscience for this matter. He has an outsider's view, and is naturally sympathetic towards Lockhart and Slughorn, and Draco and Neville for that matter. Not to mention he has a good grasp on the general sweep of history, _without being influenced by the specific history of Magical England,_ which I think might bias our decisions. We have to decide how we respond to the _Daily Prophet's_ attacks, and I think he'll have good advice. Oh, and I promised him. Anyway, after this is done I'll go interview the Professor Slughorn, just to wrap up loose ends that don't affect the pressing political matters..."

"If you haven't interviewed him, how can you be sure your story is right," said the Headmistress, as she cocked her head inquisitively. Harry smiled at the question _._

"A great question, Headmistress. I've interviewed some perpetrators and the surviving Aurors, and read the remaining transcripts of Mad-Eye's interrogations. I caught up on those I missed this morning. That includes Lockhart's interview under Veritaserum and Slughorn's initial statement after the attack. There are questions I need answered, but those statements of fact seem thorough. The timeline isn't complete, but I don't think the gaps matter. Well, not immediately. And Auror Li's interview carries particular weight. I just finished conducting a follow on. There's a lot going on, but it is just a battle. We do after action reports all the time."

"Alastor shouldn't be investigating right now," said Amelia Bones, but there was resignation in her voice. "I'd take over the investigation, but it would imply a lack of faith in Thicknesse. I do miss the simplicity of the DMLE. But Mad Eye should leave that to the Aurors and recover."

"If you wanted to control him, you shouldn't have let him retire. Actually, now that we have the ... Chalice, it seems to me that mandatory retirement should be revisited," Harry said, "But I digress. It's a simple plot, really, because the attempted heist was a feint."

"A feint?" said Madam Bones, her voice rising and shooting glances around the room. Hermione was nodding along, and Professor Asimov was just following the proceedings quietly. McGonagall's jaw had dropped slightly, but she quickly recovered and shut it tightly.

"Twenty dark wizards attack Hogwarts and Peverell and invest Merlin knows how many Galleons for a feint? I could understand the attack for the Chalice, it holds the key to life itself."

"Yes, and we grossly underestimated the probability of a serious brute force attack, which is what Mad-Eye is currently fixing, Madam Bones."

Harry pondered. We'd need a whole compound, not just a small annex. Harry remembered the old saying: _Brute force attack failed? Needs more brute force._

"I'll admit," offered Amelia Bones, "that the timing of the second attack is suspicious, and may not just be a coincidence..."

"It's not unreasonable to look at Slughorn's attack as just taking advantage of the timing," Harry said. "And as far as the wizards in custody know, they aren't related. For them, the goal was the Chalice. _And they would have gotten away with too, if it weren't for those meddling kids."_

Harry smiled at the last one and Professor Asimov chuckled, but Hermione just shook her head so Harry sighed and continued. Explaining the joke never helped.

"No," Harry said, "the attackers were duped by their inside man, Draco Malfoy." Before anyone could interrupt he tossed the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the floor.

"One of Lucius's old rules. _Look at the results and see who profits_. As a heist, this was a bust. But as a way of exposing me? Resounding success. This entire thing was an experiment and, judging from the editorials in today's paper, an _ongoing_ experiment. But back up and consider, Madam Bones, how you reacted when you found out I defeated Voldemort and was Dumbledore's heir as a mere child. Then contemplate how you felt when you found out I was, in some ways, a copy of Voldemort's soul."

"I thought I took it well," she sniffed.

"Draco found all of that by the end of the first day of school, after suffering the trauma of losing his father. He's suspected me of being Voldemort for a while, I knew that, and struggled for a way to resolve it. It's a difficult problem, with no great solution ... I actually discussed this with Quirrel last year. Anyway, for Draco it wouldn't be enough to discover whether I was Voldemort. If he did that I'd kill him. I mean, if I was actually evil. Draco needed to neutralize me until the results of the experiment came in. And he wanted to ensure that if I was Voldemort." Here Harry trailed off for a second, before continuing, "that if I actually was Voldemort and killed Draco, it wouldn't help. Draco needed to expose me to a wide audience."

"The heist set pieces in place for his real experiment, a grand misdirection. I couldn't figure it out before the second attack, because I was working under the theory that Peverell was the target, which didn't make sense with the facts at hand. But with the new motive, everything makes sense. Now I'm revealed as Tom Riddle, which is Voldemort as far as Draco is concerned. And the Prophet has published the information that Voldemort was Tom Riddle. He's spread that information far and wide. Draco is trying to isolate me, and making sure that everyone with a grudge against Voldemort knows it."

"He couldn't bring himself to kill you before," Hermione muttered. "Because he might be wrong."

"Right."

"Draco survived?" said Professor Asimov.

"That's ... complicated. Maybe. I'm still checking. For now, consider 'Draco' to be a conspiracy, instead of a person. At least after the attack. This gets confusing. But before the attack, Draco - the real Draco - wanted to determine if I'm Voldemort. So, an experiment. He knew he wouldn't get many volunteers by saying 'Hey, do you want to hunt down another potential Voldemort?' Too much risk and not enough reward. But dangling the Chalice in front of greedy Wizards? Well, that recruited an army."

"I can _hardly_ be accused of being a supporter of House Malfoy," said the Headmistress in her prim accent, "but I refuse to believe that Draco Malfoy would do something so ... evil."

"I agree, Draco had resolve but willfully endangering so many lives..." said Professor Asimov.

"I don't think he did," said Harry quietly. "But I have some facts you don't. First, I invited Draco at the beginning of the year to help me test the security, so he was well placed to judge how effective the attack would be. Second, Peverell would have been attacked in any case, I had even mentioned that there were groups of Dark Wizards already planning on attacking. Aurors were already in danger. Draco just shifted their timetable. And finally, by all accounts Draco tried to make the attack more subtle, less lethal."

"But they came through Hogwarts," countered Madam Bones, who had also read the transcripts. "What if they'd stumbled on a student...aah, the wards."

"Right. In the letters from their inside man, they were warned time and again about the Hogwarts wards. They couldn't hurt a student, they'd be limited to harmless spells until after they broke into Peverell. They just _Somnium_ ed anyone they stumbled across and hid the bodies. And they knew that only a Professor could _Imperius_ or memory alter a student, so they wouldn't be tempted. Any attack on a student would mean discovery and failure. One letter rather credulously mentioned a legend that the very statues of Hogwarts would exact vengeance on outsiders who threatened a student. No, Draco's plan took measures to move risk away from the innocent."

"Not enough measures, apparently," said Professor Asimov. "Or did one of them simply forget?"

"Walk us through it," said Madam Bones, firmly.

Harry gestured to the room around them.

"The attack starts here. And ends here, I suppose. There's some speculation involved, and I've filled in a few gaps, but most of this is straight from the transcripts. A few details to iron out, but the broad strokes are right. So, on the afternoon of March 6th Draco lured me here and then ambushed me and smuggled me out of Hogwarts..."

"But there's no way out," said Hermione.

"Not anymore," Harry agreed. "This room ... has a power. I don't really understand it yet, but I suspect it's gone. Not much works after getting hit with Fiendfyre. Sometime after I got knocked out, Draco created a tunnel to Hogsmeade from here. Later they burned this room. Also part of their plan, to cover their tracks when they escaped. Anyway, after Draco stunned me ..."


	53. Bluff and Double Bluff, pt 1

**_Author's Note_** \- Many readers are complaining about the confusion. This is an entirely reasonable complaint.

First, some of the confusion is author's intent. I may have overdone it, but honestly pulling one over an Harry requires complexity. My choices are to show things as they happen, and risk the reader saying "But Harry could have done X" or to show the confusion and then walk through the explanation (which will take a while, but starts now. There will be a few new confusing things, but I think that the total confusion will start dropping within a two chapters).

Second, I struggled with how to reveal things. Since (as stated in an earlier note) this is not meant to be a puzzle to be solved, I have ordered some chapters for dramatic effect. I worry about the balance between long gaps of exposition, which is boring, and confusion. I can easily believe I have the balance wrong.

Third, A recurring theme of DMPOR is the unreasonable effectiveness of ambushes (either physical, or being caught unawares by missing a key insight/critical piece of data) and I wanted the reader to feel ambushed. Again, a choice that may have been wrong.

Fourth, I have a few other goals I'm saving for the final author's note.

Finally, I appreciate my readers and if I have made decisions that are off-putting, part of that can be explained by the fact that I'm new to this (and making mistakes) but I do have some specific goals and hopefully there will be several "Cool! Aha! Clever!" moments as recompense for earlier confusion, even if I didn't play fair and explicitly foreshadow every one.

There are still some questions unanswered, but I think the overall confusion should decline by the end of the chapter.

Regards, _Tao_.

* * *

 _March 6th, early afternoon._

You _can_ sleep in a room with a man wearing Armageddon Robes, but it's practically impossible unless you were already asleep. Once you noticed the horrific presence it was hopeless. Your mind instinctively wanted to look away - to look anywhere else - but at the same time you couldn't help but know that he was there. It wasn't a primal fear. A simple act of willpower could force your gaze on the Robe, but you could never quite focus on them. You could never forget their presence. A man would have to be nearing the limits of exhaustion to fall asleep.

Igor Karkaroff felt peeved that Selwyn had refused to take his Robes off during the afternoon. Karkaroff could have used the nap, tonight would be a long night.

Karkaroff heard the rough, gravelly voice say "The picture!" and with a grunt he rolled over. His mind screamed _Danger!_ and his pulse quickened at the glimpse of Selwyn robed in terror and darkness. He ignored that instinct as he sat up and examined the wall.

On the wall, a picture of a tunnel. All day they'd watched it – well, Selwyn watched it while Igor tried to sleep – but it wasn't a portrait, and they'd seen nothing. Now a small shape, that of a child approached. He held a slim black torch that flickered and cast orange shadows around the painting while he walked slowly towards them. The boy tugged on a string and what looked like a grossly misshapen balloon trailed behind him, lagging, then catching up when he tugged.

Another minute and the figures were almost life size. "What is he pulling? Why is he not alone?" his companion asked. For most people, Armageddon Robes made your voice more ominous and raspy, but Igor swore they softened Selwyn's voice from a hideous rasping grate to something more like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"I have been down here with you all day. How should I know?" Igor hissed the words quietly. Nobody should be able to hear them - the wards would see to that - but the habit of secrecy died slowly and there was no harm in it. Igor ran his fingers through his goatee, once fiercely black but now speckled grey, a nervous habit he'd thought gone after Voldemort's death but reacquired over the months of planning and waiting. _Once we start, my nerves will settle._

The picture swung open, revealing the tunnel behind it and a small boy stepped out. He wore robes that Igor recognized as representing the House Slytherin. One hand held the torch and the other pulled on a silky white rope. The balloon floated into the room and with a start Igor saw that the grossly lumpen mass contained an unconscious body wrapped in webbing. Igor looked between the two boys: one standing, one floating.

"Well?" asked Karkaroff. "What is this?"

"You have to hide him," said the standing boy. "He can not be on campus. They must not find him. He'll sleep until this is done." The boys voice had a flat aspect, but a lilting cadence. A sleep walker reciting poetry. He showed no interest in his surroundings, just stood there. Waiting.

"This is foolish," rasped the horror beside him. Selwyn raised his wand at the standing boy, who made no movement.

Karkaroff barked "The wards, you fool," as he grabbed Selwyn's hand.

"We're off campus," Selwyn said. "I could flay those two alive and there would be no alarm. We have time. And he's seen _your_ face." The last words carried an accusatory tone, but the implication held.

"You know the plan, we need students to move freely, and this one is already _Imperiused_ , by the looks of it. And look at his torch."

The hood turned away from Igor towards the boy and the torch. The wood didn't burn, nothing unusual about that. The shaft looked thin, smooth and particularly black, but not extraordinary. Igor imagined Selwyn's eyes looking down the length of the torch until he saw the gleam of silver sticking out beneath the fist clenching the shaft. He heard the sharp intake of breath.

Karkaroff walked up to the boy and pulled back his hood. The motion mussed up the boy's blond hair, and empty grey eyes stared blankly ahead.

"Lucius' son," Karkaroff said, snorting.

"All the more reason," came Selwyn's reply, as his wand rose up again slowly, considering. "Lucius maneuvered while we bled, the arrogant bastard. We can use other students. Plenty of other valuable hostages. Probably more valuable, since they have parents."

The boy started speaking again. "You have to hide him. He can't be on campus. They must not find him. He'll sleep until this is done."

Selwyn's wand lowered and Karkaroff took the boy-balloon and moved it over to the cot he'd been not-sleeping on. The room's wards were fine, but Karkaroff added a few more restraints on the prisoner. couldn't make out who it was, there was just a nose and mouth visible, and one eyelid. The body looked to roughly the same size as Draco Malfoy, a younger student. Probably the boy had stumbled into the preparations and had to be moved away. Karkaroff briefly wondered why their mole hadn't simply _Imperiused_ both children but ignored the thought. Maybe he didn't want to waste the power.

It didn't matter, after all, and he had spells to cast. After a few minutes, he nodded over to Selwyn. He went over to the door and knocked three times. The door opened, another figure in an Armageddon robe stood on the other side. Igor ignored the small gasp in his mind and said, "It starts. Come down in five minute intervals, small groups. Like we discussed."

The other figure grunted her assent, and Igor closed the door.

"Don't worry, my friend," Igor said to Selwyn as he pulled on his own Armageddon robes, "Everyone bleeds in the end." Igor made a motion with his hand, and Draco Malfoy turned around and started back down the tunnel.

Two horrors followed him into Hogwarts.

They walked in silence for several minutes, illuminated only by the soft orange glow from the boy's torch. The torch, more than the other hooded figure, unnerved Karkaroff. Unlike regular torches (even wizarding torches that burned forever, or at least until turned off) this one made no sound, a fact he hadn't registered until the only sounds he'd heard were the quiet footfalls the two men made as they padded wordlessly behind Draco. The torch still flickered, a jumping flame that caused the shadows to jump and careen as they walked. Flickering felt natural, but not when coupled with silence.

They walked until the tunnel narrowed, gradually tapering to a small whole. The boy barely had to duck; he just crouched slightly and disappeared. Igor had to bend over and draw his arms in to squeeze through the entrance. When he stood back up, he was in an elegant ballroom, with chairs and small tables scattered around the room. He turned back around to see Selwyn walking through the front of a fireplace, the hidden front for the tunnel. The blond boy had flipped the cane back over, flame extinguished, and walked over to a large, leather backed chair containing a menacing shadow. The boy stopped beside the chair, respectfully waiting.

"Welcome!" said the shadow, idly toying with his wand. It also wore an Armageddon robes, which made Karkaroff scowl. He didn't like not knowing who the inside man was and he'd expressed his concern in numerous letters. The rest of his team had worked together before. An unknown presence made everyone edgy and felt risky.

The figure stood up and dramatically threw back the hood of the robe. His scarred face showed youth while teeth like a row of pearls flashed behind a smile.

"Lockhart," Karkaroff said. "I should have guessed."

There was a brief pause, the smile flickered for a second before growing and showing off even more teeth. " _Should you have_? I don't see why. I've done a fine job hiding in plain sight. Make yourself comfortable, while we wait for the others. We have some time to kill before we start."

"Yes, I should have. You need a Professor, to _Imperius_ a student."

Gilderoy Lockhart waved to Karkaroff to take a seat, then turned towards the boy. "Draco, go about your day, act normal around other students. Come back at the appointed time."

Karkaroff watched as the blond boy walked quietly out of the room. "Why him? Surely other students do not draw as much attention."

"Hm, oh yes, to be sure. But _meeker_ students tend to get bullied and they aren't as reliable. And they disappear at inappropriate times. You need someone young enough to not appear threatening who can take care of themselves during chaotic situations. So while a Hufflepuff appears to be the obvious choice, Malfoy works out much better."

Lockhart paused, then shouted a quick greeting as another robed horror squeezed out of the fireplace.

"And he happens to be the lynchpin of the getting away with this." Karkaroff cast an eye at Selwyn, who was lounging in a nearby chair, pouring a glass of water from a nearby pitcher. Lockhart's eye followed him, and the Professor asked "Would you like something stronger?" before pulling a flask out of his coat and taking a swig.

Karkaroff ignored the offer. "We've spent months planning, and thanks to your information Peverell's security won't be a problem. How could that boy possibly be of value?"

"Hogwarts has its own security and – more importantly - students clever and powerful enough to be a serious problem. You see we've already neutralized one. In a few hours I'll need one of your men to accompany Draco to deal with another."

* * *

 _Early evening._

Hermione Granger slipped through the Halls of Hogwarts like a ghost, unseen. Actually, now that Hermione thought about it, wizarding ghosts were all too frequently visible and most would talk to you for as long as you'd listen, happy to have some new victim to complain at. So.

Hermione Granger slipped through the Halls of Hogwarts like a muggle ghost, unseen.

She patrolled for bullies earlier in the afternoon, after spending the morning poring over the complicated books Harry had suggested. She'd needed to clear her mind. Hermione hadn't actually run across many bullies in the last month or two, but she still patrolled on occasion. At this point it provided a convenient excuse to take a walk and think.

Hermione glanced down at her watch, which she couldn't see, of course. Hermione suppressed a sigh and then willed the Cloak of Invisibility to let her see herself, and her arm appeared, like a faint outline hovering in front of her. Just a bit before 7pm. Draco's message had said 7.30. She got on the up escalator - the one the rest of the students just called the Elbonain Ridgeback and as she got off in the main hallway she noticed Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood, who were whispering conspiratorially as they ascended up the stairs.

Hermione followed them, but they joined up with a pack of first year girls, so she just shook her head and headed towards Harry's office. It would take her a while to get there, in any case. She went up further flights of stairs, pausing only to cast a jinx at Peeves, who'd annoyed her last Wedsnesday by following her around singing "Granger Loves Elveses! Granger Loves Elveses!" in a high sing-song voice, which was not only embarrassing - although there was no reason she should feel ashamed of supporting rights for non-human creatures - but dubious from a grammatical point of view. So she'd fired off a _Perisistent Whirlwind_ jinx at Peeves from underneath her cloak and spent several minutes watching him run around, as a small localized dust devil swooped him inside then flung him against a far wall repeatedly, which wasn't really nice.

But it was Peeves, after all. She glanced at her watch again and quietly dismissed the whirlwind and then glided up several more flights of stairs. She could hear Draco waiting for her, just standing around waiting, and with a start she realized that she could hear someone else ... just breathing. Hermione slipped around the corner and saw Draco standing next to Lesath, just outside of Harry's office. Lesath seemed to be intent, quietly casting ward detection spells at the doorway to Harry's office. She backed around the corner. Draco wasn't doing much, just watching. _Now what?_ She hadn't talked to Draco much in the last week or two, they'd both been practically studying the entire time, him for his O.W.L.S., and she ... because.

With a sigh, she took of the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into her pouch, and then made a point of walking like a normal girl, not like the silent avenging alicorn she'd been turned into, so that she didn't surprise them.

"Draco," she said as she rounded the corner and then, with what she hoped sounded like surprise, "Lesath? What's going on."

"What does it look like, Hermione?" Draco said, breaking into a smile. Lesath just scowled and kept casting, and Hermione noted that she didn't recognize all of the spells he was using. Harry had mentioned that he'd tutored Lesath and been 'generally offering advice to him,' but still. She paused for a second and then folded her hands across her chest.

"It looks like you are breaking into Harry's study."

"See, Lesath? That's why she's the smartest witch around," Draco turned to Lesath, but the older boy didn't smile or even break stride, just kept casting spell after spell.

" _Why_ are you breaking into Harry's office, Draco?"

"Because I'm tired of studying, and Harry set me up with the stupid task of examining Peverell's security, and I think he knew I couldn't solve it. So I've decided to use what I've learned to break into his office instead."

Hermione considered this preposterous explanation. On the one hand, _this was clearly stupid_. On the other, she was dealing with two boys whose rivalry had moved past infamy into near legend a year ago. _Perhaps there was testosterone involved_. If Draco knew that Harry had spied on him, just from time to time, well, he had motive. _And he'd been hanging out with the Weasley twins_. Perhaps they'd rubbed off on him.

As presposterous explanations went, it had a certain logic. Hermione couldn't dismiss it out of hand.

"And you're helping him, Lesath?" Her voice wavered when she asked the question, because as soon as the words left her lips some confusion crept into her voice. The phrase Harry used to describe Lesath came unbidden into her mind: _Too obedient for his own good._

"I am helping, Draco. Will be funny." Lesath said.

His intonation was weird, and Hermione hadn't heard Lesath answer more than a simple yes or no in the last year. _Too obedient for his own good._ Harry had meant too obedient to Harry, not Draco. Something was off. Hermione gripped her wand tightly.

"She knows," Draco said with a flat tone as he pulled out his wand. Lesath spun quickly and fired off a rain of purple transparent cubes that buffeted Hermione, knocking her into the wall. She'd never heard of such a spell and as they pummeled against her she noticed the remaining cubes arranging themselves behind her. Forming a solid wall to block her exit. _As if physical barriers - even mystical ones - could stop me_. Hermione shoved herself away from the wall and Draco hit her squarely with _Impedementa_ but tripping and other balance-attacking jinxes had no affect against Hermione Jean Granger. She shot Lesath with _Baba Yaga's Debasement_ and a screaming red streak blasted through several cubes, disintegrating them with loud splintering sounds.

Lesath smiled as the spell hit his wards. "Girl plays rough?" then fired off a steady stream of snakes at Hermione. She ducked under them, but the smile convinced Hermione that she was out of her league. She reached out with her mind and summoned Xare, but instead of appearing Hermione heard her Phoenix cry a scream of rage and frustration. She felt the sensation of being trapped inside a cage made of Cursed Fire. Fire equal but opposite to Xare's. The angles of the cage looked odd, like a Necker Cube, it stood motionless but the cage receded or protruded depending on how she thought about it, like it had an extra dimension she couldn't quite grasp. Xare screamed again.

Hermione broke out of her reverie to charge Lesath, who probably couldn't stand with her in a fist fight, but Draco had already cast _Petrificus Totalus_ and she tumbled to the ground.

She stared up at the face of Psuedo-Lesath, who bent over her and smiled broadly. "Another time, girl?" and then went back to the doorway and started casting spells. He didn't even look at Draco when he spoke again. "Hide her away."

Draco - once again acting like a zombie, like she'd seen him when she was invisible - reached down and lifted her by the shoulders, not the feet, and then dragged her up the hallway. They were already well outside of the normal flow of traffic. Draco dragged her around a corner and behind a stairwell that went up to the roof. Hermione noticed that there was already a pillow there. _He planned this. Whether I discovered Lesath or not, he was always going to ambush me._ But Draco's tone - at least, when not talking to her - had been flat. She could hear it exactly, and she recalled his blank look before she'd appeared.

Hermione took a few breathes and calmed down. _He's Imperiused._ She'd read about it, and it explained everything. Now that she was steady, she reached out again to Xare, but again she felt rather than saw the cage. Draco slid the pillow under her head and then carefully felt down the back of her neck. He found a chain and pulled on it and took the Time Turner from around her neck and pocketed. For a brief moment, Draco had a pained look on his face and Hermione willed him to fight the curse. But to no avail. Draco carefully took the wand still gripped in her hand, then quickly stood up. By the time he was standing all emotion had disappeared from his face. Draco walked away, disappearing like a ghost.

Hermione screamed in frustration, but no sound came out of her mouth, and only Xare heard.

* * *

Harry paused, making sure his audience followed. Really he should have let Hermione tell the story, but this way was just easier.

"Anyway, after neutralizing Hermione they raided my office for some supplies and burned the rest with Fiendfyre. I thought I knew what they were after, but it turns out Draco really wanted the Map that the Weasley's use to sneak around Hogwarts. As far as the attackers were concerned, this let them sneak around. They could avoid wandering Professors while sneaking into place. Draco's real goal was to slip it to Professor Slughorn, to expose me later on. He probably used Hermione's Time Turner at some point, Karkaroff saw him with it with Draco it slightly before midnight..."

"Time Turner!?" Professor Asimov's voice sounded incredulous.

Harry nodded and then shot a glance to McGonnagal. "You see, _that is the correct scientific reaction to discovering the existence of Time Travel._ "

"Duly noted, Mr. Potter," the Headmistress said.

"Anyway, the rest of the infiltrators were also Polyjuiced as students. Draco paired them in groupings that would appear natural, which made everything work smoothly and also subtly demonstrated his value. For instance, if Hermione had seen Ginny Weasley with Hestia Carrow walking together she'd have followed them, and quickly realized what was happening."

"Those were infiltrators?"

Harry nodded, ignoring Hermione's dramatic sigh, "... but she walked right past them. There were a few close calls, where students inquired a bit too carefully, but the attackers were careful. Percy Weasley got knocked out and stashed, like Hermione. Closer to midnight, you retired to your quarters, Headmistress. The attackers knew your office was empty, thanks to the map. They broke in and ransacked the place. Apparently this Selwyn guy was a master at breaking and entering, and honestly those wards are meant to stop students and maybe a professor. They didn't care if they were discovered after the fact. All in all things went smoothly."

"Until the attack itself," said Madam Bones.

"Yes. But note carefully. As far as Draco's plot went, he'd already done everything he wanted. He burned my supplies and lots of valuable notes in two offices, getting past wards that he had no hope of bypassing himself. He'd dropped the Weasley Map with Slughorn. All he had to do was convince the attackers to abort and escape in the confusion."

"But he got greedy," Hermione said, morosely.

* * *

Igor Karkaroff, disguised as a ridiculous looking tall red-headed boy, stared at the small doorway of the infirmary. "It is through there?" Madam Pomfrey snored quietly on one of the spare beds.

"That's the back entrance," Gilderoy Lockhart agreed. Karkaroff turned to Selwyn, who looked identical to him. "You are sure there is no mistake?"

"The Weasley twins, Fred and George. Don't bother picking who is who, and if you contradict yourself, no problem. They often try to confuse people, which is why we stole their hair. If anybody saw one of you, then the real one a few minutes later, they'd think nothing of it. And they often do security test, so when you walk through the door, the Auror won't just shoot you. Just say you are testing, and ambush. Watch Draco."

Professor Lockhart took out his wand and pointed it at the small blond boy and cast _Finite Incantatem._

 _"_ What are you doing?" Selwyn hissed in a much more pleasant Weasley voice, aiming his wand at the boy. Lockhart just laughed.

"I go inside first, as part of the plan? Remember?" Draco said, shaking his head and stretching out a bit.

"Yes, and ..." Karkaroff started and then shut up. "The Thief's Downfall cancels an _Imperius_ curse."

"We felt that if you knew a student was voluntarily helping, you'd have never agreed. Draco and I are partners, but we felt it was ... convenient."

"Diplomatic?" Draco suggested.

"Yes, more diplomatic to make me the figurehead."

"I never agree, if you'd said," Selwyn said in his thick accent as he moved his wand towards Lockhart, but Draco smoothly intervened between the two of them.

"Calm down, Selwyn. I've spent a lot of money on this. And I think you have, too. You didn't know who you were dealing with, but you are no worse off than you were this afternoon. The plan has gone smoothly so far. I heard what you said earlier. Don't you want to have a Malfoy plotting for you, instead of against you? But ... " Draco paused for a second, "If you want to back out we'll turn around and go our separate ways.

"Now, Gentlemen," said Professor Lockhart, "let's not be hasty. You can all disappear without a trace, but I work here..."

"No. We continue," Selwyn answered after a pause, lowering his wand. They looked to Lockhart, but Draco spoke up.

"OK, just listen in, I'll mention all the information you need, but don't get too chatty with Sanchez. He likes me a lot more than either Weasley. They swapped out his cologne for merman pheromes before Christmas. Just listen as I go through the routine, give me exactly fifteen minutes inside, then one of you follow in and say you've got some ideas you want to test. He'll be suspicious about the timing and give you some gruff, but it will be fine. If you don't come through within thirty minutes I'll have to abort, but if he announces you through then I'll clear the path on the other side, and we follow the plan. Just be casual. Knock him out when the diversion starts and come through. I'll clear the way. And we'll be gone in two minutes."

Draco paused, and then turned to Professor Lockhart. "There were a lot more teachers patrolling than we expected. Something is happening. I think you should probably get out there and coordinate with them." Draco reached into his pockets and pulled out a Time Turner.

Karkaroff's wand was out in a flash. "Planning to betray us? Or maybe just sneak out if things turn south?"

Draco slowly let the Time Turner dangle from it's chain. "He can go back _later._ He has to be seen before the attack."

Karkaroff considered. "Why do you have the Time Turner, and not your professor."

Draco started to answer, but Lockhart just laughed, "I loaned it to him because _he_ has to dodge the professors, whereas _I_ can walk around freely. Now, if we can just get on with it. Besides, Peverell is time locked and the plan has me guarding the rear. I'm the only one who could use a Time Turner..."

Karkaroff grabbed the Time Turner, then shoved it in his pocket. "You go back after the job, Lockhart."

Gilderoy's smile faded, "Very well, then."

Draco looked like he wanted to say something, but left without another word. Igor Karkaroff watched as Draco Malfoy opened the door. As it closed, he slipped behind it, listening. After the door swung shut he turned to Selwyn and whispered "Prepare." Gilderoy Lockhart watched as Selwyn stepped to the other side of the room, well away from the doorway into Peverrel, and started tracing a rune into the air.

* * *

 _March 7th, 1am._

"Good evening, Auror Sanchez. How is Annabel?"

"Just started walking, running really. Chasing her all over. Odd time for a test, Draco?" Auror Sanchez had an easy smile, and why not? Guard duty at Peverrel wasn't difficult, not recently anyway, and working the overnight shift earned bonus pay.

"Insomnia again," Draco said with a shrug, "might as well do something useful."

William Sanchez shook his head. The Malfoy boy was an odd duck. To hear Mike tell it, he was actually a pretty good kid, and everyone agreed he was nice enough. But eccentric. He'd show up for security tests and spend hours doing who-knows-what, then disappear to the library and not be seen for weeks. And the stories the Aurors stationed at the Ministry told when they rotated through...

"You need a girlfriend. When I went to Hogwarts, that's what we did at night."

Draco blushed. "She doesn't know I exist, in all honesty. Maybe next year." Draco Malfoy knew the routine and had already handed over his wand and mokeskin pouch, which William took and put in a bag marked "Malfoy, D." He was about to stow the bag when he looked at Draco's cane.

"You know the rules, Draco."

"Oh, I'm allowed this for my next test. I already cleared it."

William frowned, his black mustache curling down slightly, but he grabbed the duty roster notebook and flipped through several pages. "Ah, OK. Let me call it in, so you don't get dropped right away."

("How ... in Merlin's Name ... did Draco Malfoy tamper with that list?" demanded the Chief Mugwump with an intensity that caused Professor Asimov to back up. Harry Potter stopped where he was explaining and looked abashed.

"I actually approved that test. A few weeks ago. Oh, don't give me that look, for all we know he could have summoned his cane inside anyway. The Ministry has anti-Apparition jinxes, too, and that didn't stop it. So _yes_ , I authorized his request. Do you know how difficult it's been to study truly powerful artifacts? The Sorting Hat refuses to leave Hogwarts, and its the only other thing I know that..."

Harry stopped. "Anyway, as I was saying...")

Auror Sanchez finished the scan and confirmed that the only magical item Draco had was his cane, which admittedly registered as a powerful item, but it was on the approved list. Draco nodded to Auror Sanchez and stepped through the Thief's Downfall with his hands raised, cane clearly in sight. He stopped momentarily as the spray washed over him, then nodded at the assembled Aurors. "This may take a while." There was a small crowd gathered, news of Draco's exploits at the Ministry had spread and Draco's tests were sometimes perplexing and occasionally amusing. And, while they'd never admit it, he'd revealed a few areas for improvement even if he'd never noticed the flaws himself, and figuring out how to shore up the defenses could lead to a promotion. Sure, he'd done hours and hours of boring tests, too.

But what else did they have to do on a boring night shift?

* * *

Selwyn paused and examined the newly summoned Fiendfyre. The infirmary glowed a sickly neon red and the walls reflected the light in every direction, like a cauldron of blood had been poured across a movie projection. The others had arrived over the last few minutes, singly and in pairs, and Selwyn looked around the room at the small, childish faces. Set hard for the task at hand. For once, he was pleased to note, the smile had left Gilderoy Lockhart's stupid face.

Selwyn concentrated, took a deep breath, and the Fiendfyre coalesced into the shape of bird, the fire turning from a diffuse crimson to a bright focused velvet, and now the wall shadows showed flickering little people. Almost time.

"I had thought Fiendfyre was only to be used to burn through the outside wall," Lockhart said, nervously.

Selwyn shook his head. "Vanishing Cabinet." He didn't like this voice, it was practically impossible to project any menace as a gangly teenaged boy. Still, he thought Lockhart looked taken aback by this development.

"That wasn't the plan," said Lockhart. "Your team re-routed the Auror troops cabinet stationed at the D.M.L.E. to deal with the reinforcements. That was our one condition, we'd only need to deal with locals."

Selwyn shrugged. A girl who'd polyjuiced into the powerful girl he'd fought hours earlier shook her head, long frizzy hair trailing, and spoke in a hard voice that belied her apparent youth. "And _we_ thought we were dealing with two professionals, Lockhart. Honestly, you don't even have Malfoy's stones. Did you seriously believe we'd be able to disable it? You should have known that only a brute-force solution would work. Since this place," she nodded to the doorway, "is time locked, I doubt more than half a dozen Aurors will make it through the cabinet before we smash it."

"And they'll be burned alive." said Lockhart, calmly. He'd paced as he listened to the explanation. He paused, exactly between the crowd and the doorway, and leaned against it. He'd started sweating. "I can't allow that, Hermione."

The girl just rolled her eyes.

Lockhart laughed nervously. "You know what I mean! I forgot who is disguised as which student."

"No time for this," Selwyn growled, and urged his dread phoenix forward. Lockhart quailed but stood his ground, trying to shrink back into the doorway.

"No," Lockhart said. "It's an abort. We'll regroup. There's another way."

"You've already got your _man_ inside," said the girl disguised as Hermione, leveling her wand at Gilderoy Lockhart. "Look, sorry about the stones crack. Standing there in front of Fiendfyre? That takes courage, but we don't have time for this."

Selwyn said _Avada Kadavra_ and a green streak struck the surprised Professor, who slumped backwards then tumbled over to the side. Selwyn walked over and, not being used to being so tiny, grunted as he shoved the body out of the door way.

* * *

Halfway across Hogwarts, Minerva McGonnagal sat bolt upright in her bed, sweat pouring from her skin despite the night breeze that kept the Headmistresses bed chamber cool. She was confused, momentarily uncertain about where she was, the time, the date, everything. If you'd asked her to state her name, she would have stumbled and paused, because right now her mind contained only one thought, echoing in a voice that was not her own.

 ** _A Student Has Died_**

Minerva grabbed her wand and time turner.

* * *

"Useless," Selwyn said, as a small red-headed girl whirled on him. She started to protest, he ignored her. "If I burned him, he'd scream." There were scattered nods around the room. A blinding bolt flew at Selwyn and crackled against his ward and suddenly there were twice as many shadows in the room flickering on the walls.

"Go!" screamed the girl before firing an electric blue blast towards a small robed figure. Selwyn jumped over the lifeless corpse and ran into the Heart of Peverell, right behind his personal inferno. As the rest of the group made a fighting withdrawl into Peverell over the next several minutes, the distraction of battling Professors (joined by an increasing number of Aurors) kept them from noticing that the body of Gilderoy Lockhart had bubbled and shrank down to that of a small boy.

* * *

Draco Malfoy had been moving slowly throughout the room, muttering quietly to himself, ignoring the watching Aurors. Suddenly Aurors in full combat gear started pouring through a vanishing cabinet. Then a twisted mass of molten fire flew through the entrance, flying through several of the arriving Aurors before smashing into the cabinet, which erupted into flames and immediately sagged and started melting.

Draco fell back, instinctively raising his hands to shield himself from the heat as he yelped and let out an abrupt "What the..." before he collapsed onto the ground.

In all the confusion, he never heard the spell that hit him.


	54. Bluff and Double Bluff, pt 2

Auror Li fidgeted in the small interrogation room, sighed, and picked up the quartz lensed glasses in front of him. They slid comfortably onto his face, and instantly his vision defocused then reformed, somewhat. A door opened. He could see the shape entering the room, a blurry, not large but easily discernible blob, of no particular height or color. The blob took the seat opposite him and opened up a bag, then unceremoniously dumped out the contents, a scroll, a quill, and some device Li couldn't quite place. Unlike the blob the items were easy to focus on, it was a _Ready Write True Testimony Copying Quill_ , and a _Never-ending Evidentiary Scroll._ The other device looked vaguely Muggle in origin, but Li hadn't really paid attention to Muggle Studies in school.

Muggle Studies didn't help you land a job, although talk around the precinct said that may change. Michael watched as the blob fiddled with the Muggle device, and he heard The Voice. Perps called it the "Voice of Doom" or just "The Voice" and it was always the same. Not loud, not booming, but it had a definite presence. Gravitas. You couldn't _not_ hear it, no matter how quietly it spoke, and while it didn't magically compel answers - that's what the drop of _Veritaserum_ Li had taken several minutes ago was for - it seemed to resonate throughout your body, a basso profundo that could shake a criminal's confidence to the core.

Auror Li really liked being on the other side of the table. _Damned Internal Affairs._

The Muggle device made a hissing noise, which thankfully wasn't echoed by the Voice, but the Voice spoke up. Instantly the Quill perked up and started writing, scritching away dutifully on the evidentiary scroll. For a moment, the Voice spoke formally, almost distractedly.

 _"Follow on questioning of Auror Li Xiaoguang under a single drop of Veritaserum regarding the attack on Peverell Hospital on the morning of March 7th. Questioning takes place on ... March 13th, approximately 2pm. [Redacted] questioning."_

Li sat up a bit higher, since the Voice redacted his interrogator's name. An important blob, not just a shift commander or random investigator.

 _"Auror Li, I just want to state for the record that this questioning is not in any way a reflection of poor performance during the attack. The records indicate you acted with competence and valour during the situation. There are just several confusing aspects, that we want to delve in further."_

Li nodded. "Well, it was a confusing morning."

 _"When the Fiendfyre destroyed the DMLE auxilliary entrance, you quickly subdued Draco Malfoy."_

"Yes, that's standard procedure. He wasn't cleared. I mean, he had some clearance to be there as part of a testing procedure, but ..."

" _Yes, thank you. That wasn't the question. I wanted to ask why you woke him back up."_ The Voice paused, and when it spoke again it sounded ... not hesitant - the Voice never sounded uncertain. The Voice sounded either certain or accusatory. But now there was just the slightest hint of apology. Almost. _"In your own words. Again, this is not second guessing what you did in a drastic situation, but we want to understand why."_

Li licked his lips. The repeated protestations that he wasn't being hung out to dry rung a bit hollow now, although if there's one thing that Li believed - that everyone believed - was that Alastor Moody might kill you and burn your corpse for the smallest mistake if you worked on his squad, but he'd never turn you over to anyone else for judgment. In any case, it wasn't like he could lie. The quill hovered in front of him, perfectly still, and as he spoke it started taking down his words.

"Well, the initial attack wasn't subtle. Sanchez was dead before we knew it, just as support appeared from the closet the Fiendfyre slammed into them - it doesn't even smell like burning flesh, they never mentioned that in training. The North and Eastern walls were melting. People wearing Armageddon robes were coming through the gaps. My trio were in waiting, we'd been watching the Malfoy boy before the attack started and we were outnumbered almost instantly. Most of the others were in the other wing, and they had it even worse. I could hear the fighting coming through from the infirmary. The Hogwarts one, that is, which at least protected our flank. But we were all separated and pinned down. Prabat left to secure help and counter-attack, even though I told him not to. And Draco's a good kid, you know. I caught him casting underage last summer, and found out he can summon a Patronus. Imagine that, a Slytherin with a Patronus."

Li paused, and the blob slid a glass of water across the table. He recognized the technique, he'd used it often enough himself. But he drank the water.

"Anyway, I figured I'd be out of the fight in another minute or two in any case. So I decided to chance it. I mean, it's not like I'd die _more_ if he shot me in the back. And if not ... he deserved better than dying as a random victim in my battle. And we'd all heard the stories...so, I figured I'd roll the dice."

* * *

 _Ennervate._

Draco looked up and saw the underside of a bed. Another bed had been thrown on it's side and an Auror peered out over it, facing away from Draco. The room wasn't dark, it was still brightly lit but there were crimson and purple undertones. The Auror - Mike Li - shouted complex chants but mainly ducked behind the beds, which were surprisingly spell resistant.

 _Huh, I never thought to test that. Makes sense, the Aurors would expect to be defending. Time is on their side._ Draco thought it automatically. He started to sit up and then thought better of it, he rolled over on his stomach and grasped the cane on his side. Behind him - behind them both - the wall glowed sickly red and was dropping to the floor in large chunks.

"I hope you've got something useful. But if not, just shoot me when I'm not looking," screamed the Auror, not even sparing Draco a glance. Draco looked down at the cane in front of him, and looked back at the wall. There was already a large hole and a figure in an Armageddon Robe peered through the hole, carefully not touching it. Draco scooped up his cane with one hand and quickly slid towards Auror Li. He raised his other hand and screamed loudly, his voice cracking and breaking:

 _ **Sigil Prodi!**_

Auror Li turned his head in confusion and amazement, head swiveling around just in time to see a _second_ cane appear in the boy's up stretched right hand, the twin of the cane in his left hand. Li spotted the figure coming through the wall. It was aiming at him, directly at his back, and Li wildly tried to reposition his shields as a green streak flew from the wand pointed at him when Draco Malfoy slammed the newly arrived cane into the ground, and the rest of the world disappeared in a white haze.

The silence stunned Auror Li for a second, but he leveled his wand at Draco Malfoy.

"You are working with them," he said. A statement not a question.

"I'm not. We only have a few moments, then we'll be back in the battle."

Draco released the cane in his right hand, and it stood straight up, vibrating slightly. As though it were forcing the earth down and slowly cracking under the strain. Draco snatched the other cane into both hands and grabbed the top and started ... twisting. After a moment the top of the cane started turning.

"This can't be a coincidence," Li said.

Draco was unscrewing the top of the cane, and now he was sweating. Li took the moment to adjust his shields and ready some new spells, trigger based spells he could fire the instant that ... whatever was happening ... ended.

"There are coincidences, and there are coincidences." At this point the top of the cane fell to the ground, landing without a noise, and Draco upended the cane. Three flasks tumbled out, one shaped like a diamond, the other a small cylinder, and a traditional sphere from the 1600s, favored by arabic alchemists. After that came a wand, a silver ring and package wrapped in twine. Li put his foot on the wand, but Draco reached for the spherical flask and popped it open with his right hand, plucking out one of his hairs with his left hand. Draco threaded the hair into the flask before restoppering it and shaking it up.

"Polyjuice," said Auror Li, more question than a statement. The cane on the ground vibrated more violently, the snake head was now a blur moving roughly an inch side to side, and they could hear a rumble.

"If I'm working with them, then you should disguise yourself as me and surprise them. And I am happy to see you looking like me, since they're going kill me, and this improves my odds." He tossed the flask over to Auror Li and pocketed the package and remaining flasks. He took off the silver ring off his left hand and replaced it with the one on the floor, then reached for his wand. "In any case, if I was on their side I'd have shot you in the back, like you said."

Li let him have his wand and took a sip of Polyjuice, instantly his limbs started shortening. Draco reached out and plucked the flask from Li's hands, leaving the silver ring in its place. Draco put the flask into his pocket. The cane's whining had gone from low organ rumble to more of a trumpet like call, and was still rising. Li could see the strain of maintaining this separation on Draco's face as he concentrated on untying the package.

Draco kicked the cylindrical flask over to Li. "Another gift," he said, hands shaking.

Li lifted the flask to his eyes, ignoring the high pitched whine, and glanced into vial. A small golden drop flew upwards out of the rest, then floated back down. By now he was Draco's size, he could still feel his features flowing slightly, hair shortening, but he was now child sized and he put the ring on, careful to match the same finger Draco had has ring on. Another few seconds and the polyjuice finished the job. It was safe to drink another potion.

Li opened the flask then hesitated.

"Only one dose," Li said.

"I'm not going to be able to break their wards anyway," Draco was pocketing the contents of his package. "Besides, my ring's magic."

Li was already drinking by the time Draco finished the sentence. Li felt the smooth _Felix Felicitis_ calm him as it flowed down his throat, his nerves relaxing. Even the screeching whine of the cane no longer felt like it was grinding into his bones. Draco finished screwing the top back onto his secondary cane and handed it over.

"What does it..."

"Nothing. So they can't tell us apart, they might not notice if you didn't have a ring..." Li grasped the cane into his off hand. If nothing else it did look intimidating.

The other cane was whipping violently back and forth and Draco cupped his hands around the top, moving them slowly together, forcing the cane's vibrations to slow. The pitch rose dramatically, a cry of alarm and terror. With a clap Draco's hands were together and the world jumped back into view.

Each Draco grabbed his cane in his left hand, but one fired spells wildly all around while the other just hit the ground and flailed across the floor. The figures already in the room stopped and aimed at the dangerous Draco.

* * *

"And then, I covered him as he crawled away" Li continued.

" _Yes, thank you. What happened after that is well documented. Did you see what else Draco Malfoy had stored in the hollow cane? What was in the package?"_

"No, but was fairly small, perhaps a large amulet? Just wrapped in paper. He untied the string, but he didn't take it out. Just shoved it in his pocket."

" _The 3rd potion?"_

"No idea."

" _Did you see Draco again after you separated from the white haze?"_

 _"_ Just his body."

 _"How do you know it was his?"_ Li stopped to consider this. _"You said he took back the Polyjuice with his hair in it. He may have given it to someone else."_

"Well, the other cane was on the ground next to him."

The blob and Voice considered this for some time.

 _"Knowing what you know now, do you wish to revise your opinion as to whether or not Draco Malfoy was working with the attackers?"_

Now Auror Li sat and thought. The Voice didn't press, merely gave him time to think.

"Draco seemed like a good kid. Not perfect, but not his father. I still don't think it's a coincidence he was there. He's a kid who ... asked ... me to look the other way for his crimes, but minor stuff, the kind rich kids get away with all the time. Like I said, I caught him practicing a Patronus, not some dark ritual. And when it comes down to it, he probably saved my life. Yeah, he used me as a distraction to save his own skin, but he could have drank that liquid luck himself, in which case I'd probably be dead and he'd be sitting here. And he could have shot me in the back, like he said. Am I sure he wasn't involved in trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone? No, I'm not sure. But if he was he didn't have the stomach to kill for it."

Auror Li took another sip of water. "I suppose I'll never know."

" _This concludes the questioning. End Transcript."_ The quill fell to the table, as though content with a job well done. " _I do have one more question, though. The Liquid Luck. No side effects, did it work as advertised?"_

Li smiled. "That stuff is great. I know it's too expensive, and I keep hearing about side effects, but I think it should be standard issue in emergencies. Not a single spell hit me."

 _"Well, that's good to know. Thank you for your help, Auror Li._ _ **Stupefy.**_ "

Harry looked down at Auror Li, who'd slumped onto the table, obscuring goggles still stuck to his face. Then he stood up and stuck his hand just over his side pocket. A long wand, fifteen inches made of elder wood flew up and into his grasp.

"Thank you again, Auror Li," said Harry Potter, as he prepared a simple memory charm to repair the last minute.

"Your story checks out."

* * *

Harry finished his summary of his interview with Auror Li (skipping the part where he knocked him out and memory charmed him) and took a sip of water.

"You must believe Draco was in on the job, after Auror Li's story," said the Chief Mugwump, wiping her brow.

"He planned the heist, yes. Obviously. In any case, the rest of the story leaves no doubt. But, like I said, Draco's goal was never theft. Clearly whatever he planned had gone by the wayside. The transcripts are clear. Selwyn deviated from the plan. But in any case, suppose that Draco and the rest did steal the stone. How would you respond, Madam Bones?"

"Unleash hell and Moody," she answered firmly.

"You and every other semi-intelligent wizard. _Everyone_ with any dream of power would hunt them down. Not to mention that once they had the Stone, Draco would have outlived his usefulness in a room full of moral monsters. No, they'd be easy to track and Draco would be dead anyway. Draco may be a flawed reasoner, but he'd understand that perfectly. He got that right, at least."

"Draco's plan seems clever," said the Headmistress.

"At some level, it was. Certainly the core ideas work well. The key to Draco's plan - well, the plan that we saw anyway - is that both sides reasonably concluded that having Draco alive helped their chances and were under significant time pressure, which prevented them from revisiting that decision. Draco had the advantage that he'd considered this for some time. Auror Li rescued Draco, and could have decided to knock him out again. But, Draco shared his equipment with him."

"Which Li interpreted as proof of good faith, even though it also helped Draco," said Hermione.

"Gift giving also creates a powerful desire to reciprocate," Harry said. "I've read Cialdini's book on the psychology of Influence, but Draco understands that at such a level that it's practically a super-power. He's ridiculously good at reading people and manipulating them. Draco had just rescued Li from his attackers, given him time and equipment to regroup. It's no surprise that even consciously recognizing that Draco was almost certainly involved, Li let him go. After all, there was still the remote possibility that this all just was a massive coincidence. And he owed Draco. So he decided to let him go, and hope to sort things out later. It probably wasn't even a conscious decision, but you'd have to be Mad Eye Moody to knock someone out after they just saved your life. I didn't want to press him under _Veritaserum_ and scuttle his career, Madam Bones. He was wrong to trust Draco, but it was a battlefield decision. A reasonable mistake. Hard cases make bad law."

Amelie Bones shook her head. "No, he followed protocol early on. I don't blame him for what he did later. Protocol is for expected things, as you note."

"Anyway, Draco's charade lets him play an oversized role, like in a parliamentary government where some fringe faction could be crushed by either major party, but has just enough votes to decide the majority. In that case, the fringe gets courted by both sides. Draco smuggled his equipment past security because I let him. It was my mistake that sets this up. The attackers assume Draco and 'Lockhart' shares their goal of stealing the stone. They considered Draco and Lockhart fools who didn't understand that they'd be betrayed as soon as the heist was done. Their mistake."

Harry flicked up his third finger, counting. "Auror Li, desperate, rolled the dice and ennervated Draco. Third mistake. To be fair Draco did help both sides and made sure to be seen helping them. Draco got lucky, because one group was stuck back defending against Hogwarts and the rest were spread out attacking the Aurors and looking for the stone. The defenders never saw _Draco_ (by which I mean Mike Li) attacking their allies. And everyone involved under-estimated Draco, and misjudged his goals." The last part was said with some bitterness.

Professor Asimov cleared his throat - "As a non-wizard, I'm not clear why you suspect Draco may be alive?"

"Well, Draco is carrying around Polyjuice potion keyed to his likeness and he gave some to Mike Li. He could have given some to someone else and escaped in the confusion."

"But, Mr. Longbottom's body did not stay in Gilderoy's form after he was killed. It reverted several minutes later."

Amelia Bones spoke up. "I don't think we need to reveal the details of this..."

But Harry was already speaking. "The power of the Philosopher's Stone is to make temporary changes permanent. That's a secret, but people are figuring it out, and it's not very well kept anymore. We've always had the ability to make people young, but just short term. The stone locks the changes in. Draco had somehow figured that out. I think we'll need to have a high level talk about how well our decisions about secrecy versus transparency have played out, and how the new revelations affect them. But that can wait for a few more days."

(Harry didn't bother to add the details about the Maurader's Map, which could identify Polyjuiced people as their true identity, but he'd already tested - the map didn't display dead people. He'd checked that before the ambush, which was helpful, since someone ... possibly an ally of Draco or perhaps merely a student who recognized it's usefulness, had swiped it in the chaos after the funeral.)

Harry took another drink of water. Hermione had been awfully quiet. _These revelations had been tough on her. She blamed herself for not getting there in time, and now she feels conflicted because Draco tricked her as well._

"You said Draco's other plan," Hermione said.

"Well, he expected a betrayal, but I think Draco was honestly surprised by the use of Fiendfyre. He sketched out a plan to get in and get out stealthily, using some distracting attacks, but with minimal force. It looks good on paper, but it wouldn't work. Draco probably knew it. But he believed he'd sold it. It's even hard to guess at, but I know he had another plan."

"And why do you know that?" asked the Headmistress.

"Because he'd already won once he got through the door. He could have simply walked over to the Auror and quietly confessed. He could have told them about the attack and said he feared for his life and begged them for a debriefing well away from my control and the government and spread the rumour quietly. Slughorn had the map already. They'd burned my office. Draco had already won. He could have extricated himself from the situation. But he didn't. I think his plan all along was the have the 'subtle' attack fail and fake his death. And to make the failure his fault, so that there was no instant reprisal against Gilderoy. Neville."

The Headmistress bowed her head, and Hermione followed. Harry continued. "Neville wasn't Imperiused. He knew the risk when he agreed to play the role of Lockhart. I imagine Draco told him the full story, as he believed it, under _Veritaserum_. Neville knew he couldn't sound an alarm himself, he could only alert everyone by ... dying while still in Hogwarts. He was the best of us all."


	55. Bluff and Double Bluff, pt 3

**Author's Note** \- According to the MPAA, you can drop one F-bomb and not be rated R.

* * *

A battle raged near the entrance between Hogwarts and Peverell. Four indistinguishable people shrouded in Armageddon Robes were firing spells and erecting wards against Aurors attacking from the Hallway. Selwyn fought beside them, still disguised as a student. He hadn't had time to put on his robe, but since the Fiendfyre had melted the Thief's downfall the Aurors still wouldn't be able to ID him.

He'd followed his cursed Phoenix through the door, guided by the floor plans into the closet. The others had followed quickly, stating that they were under attack. Somehow they'd been discovered. After dealing with nearby Aurors, Selwyn arranged the defenses to protect their rear. The others, those coming in from the outside, could get the stone. Spells flew underneath the dripping remains of the Thief's Downfall, but so far the enemy remained unseen. They'd been defending for a few minutes, when Draco Malfoy slid in beside Selwyn, coming to an abrupt stop after dashing across the open room. As he crashed into the hastily constructed barricade, he bumped into Selwyn who promptly aimed at him, but the boy spoke up first.

" _Immortality_ ," Draco hissed the password. " _You fucked up, Karkaroff!_ " Draco Malfoy threw down his cane against the barricade (another upturned bed) where it hit and rolled around, clattered noisily. Draco ignored it and started rifling through Wilhelmina's pockets. She'd gone down in the first minute, killed when Aurors hit her with multiple Ventus spells from different directions, snapping her neck.

That was before they'd secured the room.

The boy showed no squeamishness, taking her supplies as his own. He snatched the wand from her dead hands. Draco pulled back the hood and glanced at her face while still searching. "I'm lucky to be alive. I didn't have time to get my wand. This was supposed to be _stealthy._."

"I am not Karkaroff," Selwyn corrected, but Draco's scowl acted like a shrugging _whatever_ and Selwyn dimly recalled that he and Karkaroff Polyjuiced as twins, "Teachers and Aurors outside, they discovered us somehow. Unlucky. Must admit, I am impressed. Much better than Lockhart. Plan still on. Other group fights past remaining Aurors."

"Where is Lockhart?" the boy growled and ducked back down for a second, rage showing on his face. He glanced around the barricade, and poked his head over it, looking around for several long seconds. Draco nodded abstractly to himself and grabbed his cane, tapping it to Selwyn's shoulder then pointing it towards the right-most of a pair of doors behind him. The _other_ door led to the Fountain, and somewhere, the stone. A battle raged in that room. "Once I get in position, open that for me. Hold them off as long as you can, join up in recovery."

Selwyn shot another spell and scowled in annoyance. "Stone is through other door."

"Along with most of the other Aurors, who I can't fight. They are your problem. Escaping is everyone's problem."

Selwyn nodded. "Ten minutes, can last."

"If you are late I'm diving out a hole in the wall. This isn't over, Cover me." Draco Malfoy said as he dashed away, keeping low to the ground.

Selwyn smiled and launched a cloud of noxious gas into the hallway that would poison and blind anyone there. He turned to the skull faced figure beside him and spoke in fluent German. "I am pleased I didn't murder him, earlier," then lobbed of another spell towards the door. He directed the Fiendfyre to burn through the door.

* * *

Sharon Wallace sat in the floor, crouched low, huddling back and forth. The door towards receiving started glowing, and she let out a sobbing cry. _Where were the Aurors?_ She was just a nurse. A dark fire poked into the room, cruel wisps reaching towards her and she closed her eyes, but suddenly the heat disappeared. A small face appeared in the hole, eyes darting around the room and she panicked for a second, and wished that she had a wand, but only Aurors and people who'd taken an Unbreakable Oath were allowed wands in Peverell, and she hadn't been willing to commit to that. She was just a nurse. The eyes locked in with hers for a second and then a small blond boy crawled into the room with her.

"Nurse Wallace," the boy said after blinking once, then moved quickly towards the other side of the room towards the door into the fountain area and poked his head over the window. She recognized him, he'd done some loyalty testing for the Aurors. Tried to bribe her, then been admitted for a nasty Triffid bite, although she hadn't been working that day. _Draco Malfoy._ She remembered.

"We can't get in through there, one way door. If we could go in there I'd have done it, the Aurors are holed up in there with the Chalice."

He didn't seem to be paying attention to her, and just mumbled to himself.

"I don't suppose you have a wand."

Without looking taking his eyes away from the window, the boy tossed a wand in her general direction.

"I wouldn't try to fight anyone. No offense, but we're outclassed," he said. "Wait for an opening, dive out the window and cast _Wingardium Leviosa_. Don't cast inside, you'll attract attention."

"Wait," he said. "You didn't have a wand?" She shook her head. "You haven't taken the Vow?" She shook her head again. He quickly crouched down beside her and fished a package out of his pocket and started speaking rapidly.

"Do not touch this. _Do not_. Not until I tell you." He was quickly opening the package, which had two small cardboard boxes, one green and one red. He stuffed the green package back into his pocket, and grabbed a towel off the shelf, "You know I was helping with Security, right Nurse Wallace? Remember, I tried to bribe you. Chocolate Frogs?"

"I remember," she said.

"OK, so don't freak out, and when I tell you, touch this once. _Just once!_ It's safe." He flipped the lid off the red box and slapped it down onto the ground, then lifted it up, and she gasped.

Sitting on the ground was a blood red stone. She looked at it and he nodded. She reached out and touched it, and instantly a second stone appeared next to the first. Draco carefully wrapped the original in a towel and handed her the towel.

"If anyone chases you shake this out of the towel, don't touch it! Just drop it and run. Make sure they see you dropping it. Actually, wait. Touch it once more." She did, and again it duplicated. The boy snatched up both stones, and shoved them into his pocket. _For some reason they didn't do anything when he touched them,_ she thought.

He crawled to the hole he'd come in and poked his head out, but no shots came. He turned back. "Follow me, I'm crawling right, you duck left, out through the wall. Keep your head down."

Clutching her wand in her right hand, with a stone wrapped in a towel underneath her left arm, Susan Wallace watched the boy disappear through the hole. She took a deep breath and started to crawl.

* * *

"Another part of Draco's preparation ... he'd made a decoy Philosopher's Stone. I've been pestering the goblins about this; they are stonewalling me."

"It duplicated itself?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, I asked about that. Apparently the Malfoy vault has had security like that for years. Anyone unauthorized who touches anything will create a phantasm copy. In close quarters this can actually smother would-be burglars. It's called the _Midas Trap_. Draco's plan has levels and levels, but you can see the repeated theme - duplication and deception. It's standard among muggle magical entertainers. You show one person disappear and reappear on the other side of the room, but it's actually two people, a pair of twins. Talking with the Weasleys, Draco had looked into how to defeat security using them, and they thought about it, too. Obviously you'd have to work with things people never expect to be duplicated."

"Two Dracos, Two Canes, Two Stones," murmured the Headmistress."Very clever."

"Three stones," Harry corrected. "Remember, the nurse saw two fakes, originally, before duplication. Only one had the _Midas trap_."

"And the other one?" asked Hermione.

"He needed one that wouldn't be an obvious fake when touched, for any version of the plan. It didn't have to hold up to close inspection, just not do anything obviously wrong when touched."

"But why give one to the nurse?"

"Well, it's not like it cost him anything. Nurse Wallace did in fact escape, but if she'd been chased it might have helped her survive. And a bit more chaos probably didn't hurt his chances. When he ducked out he probably waved to Selwyn to let her go, or just made sure the coast was clear. I don't think it really matters. As far as Draco was concerned, she's just an innocent bystander. Getting back to it...by this point Aurors were counterattacking and thanks to the Headmistress's clever planning, the attack from the Hogwarts side was going well."

* * *

Headmistress McGonagall had just jumped back one hour, and she paused to take stock. She had a dread feeling she wouldn't be able to prevent or fake the student's death, Albus had warned her about that, and she'd asked Harry Potter to explain this last summer, after the full weight of her responsibility had hit. She was afraid - not of inaction or hesitation - but of blundering in and locking in the Death she'd felt. Or even making things worse. Minerva McGonagall felt resolved, but anybody who intuitively understood Time Turners had to be kept safely locked away in Saint Mungos until they forget. The only possibly sane expert was Harry Potter. He claimed nobody really understood Time Travel, but he got closer than most.

Harry had what he called 'a useful set of Heuristics for manipulating paradoxes to your advantage.'

She knew the rules, but he could think through the implications faster, and improvise. And Minerva still felt flustered by the terrible voice of Hogwarts, echoing in her head like dread bells. Harry had warned her about that. That's why Heuristic #1 was - _"Jump back in time quickly, but then be as cautious as possible. Take a moment to relax and think."_ Headmistress McGonagall took three deep breaths, but she didn't have to make her first decision, she'd already decided on her primary strategy long time ago.

Because If anyone could bluff time itself, could stare it down, make it shrug and fold a winning hand, it would be Harry Potter. The Headmistress pulled out a mirror to call him, but he didn't answer. She sent her Patronus to find him then said, loudly, "Winky," and a small house-elf appeared with a bow.

"Wake and assemble the professors and have them assemble in the Great Hall, I need to address them. And have Harry Potter contact me immediately, no delays." Winky disappeared with a bow. Minerva hesitated for a second and then picked up a mirror. "This is Headmistress McGonagall. This may be nothing, but please deliver a message to Mr. Thicknesse that something terrible will happen at Hogwarts in exactly ... fifty six minutes, and they should mobilize. No! Don't come before then...I'll send more details, when I can."

* * *

Ged and his trio had abandoned their position guarding the Stone after it became unbearably hot. But they'd had a bit of time and followed protocol, they'd thrown fingers and he'd "won," so he grabbed the stone and pocketed it. It would have survived the Fiendfyre, but then whoever got there first would have simply grab it. They didn't have to stay and guard the stone, not at the risk to their life. But their Vow forced reasonable efforts to secure the stone. When possible. Right now they were in a defensible position. If they could just make it past those bastards in Armageddon robes they'd scatter out of Hogwarts and regroup. Spells whizzed overhead. Spells and ... something else.

Ged had seen the figures ... assassins, more like it ... crouching, crawling and maneuvering towards them, trying to get an angle. One had been running a second ago but something had knocked him down. A second later there was a loud noise - followed by ringing silence that echoed and echoed in his ears. Ged, Xanthippe and Aleister rocked unsteadily from the sheer pressure wave of the spell. Suddenly Xanthippe lunged, grabbing at something on the ground and then there was another blood red stone and Aleister lunged and grabbed it. Ged's hand had gone to his secure pocket (you dare not put the Philosopher's stone inside a magical pouch, because of what might happen).

Ged knew he had the real stone.

But ... maybe it had fallen out. _Maybe?_ Doubt nibbled at Ged's mind, but he didn't feel compelled to grab the stone. His Unbreakable Vow never compelled him to do anything dangerous, but his own doubt ...

Ged grabbed the stone on the ground while keeping his eyes peeled for assassins. As his right hand closed around the stone and he held it, another appeared. He dropped the first stone and grasped at the second and the thought _Midas Curse!_ cross his mind. His left hand felt the lump in his vest where he'd stashed the real stone and he _knew_ the others were fake. Ged tried to shout something to Aleister, and he felt his screaming voice, but couldn't even hear himself over the ringing in his ears before something struck him from behind and he was unconscious.

* * *

Hermione heard the fumbling in the hallway and tried to shout, but again nothing happened. Only Xare responded with her own plaintive wail. So Hermione waited and fumed, another few minutes of waiting after the hours she'd already endured. _At least I don't seem to get sore, resting in the same position,_ Hermione thought. Eventually she saw Pomona Sprout leaning over her.

 _Ennervate._

Hermione bounced up in a smooth motion. "We have to go, Draco's been _Imperiused_! They're inside Hogwarts, PolyJuiced!"

"Breathe, dear. Breathe."

"We have to rush."

"We already have, dear. That's what Time Turners are for." Professor Sprout pulled out her mirror and called Minerva. "Headmistress, I've found Miss Granger. She'd been petrified. No sign of Potter, though..."

Hermione Granger summoned up all of her willpower snatched the mirror from her Sprout's hand, while knocking her wand well down the hallway. "Headmistress! They've Imperiused Draco! They burned Harry's office, I tried to stop them but..."

"Thank you, Hermione. Please stay with Professor Sprout. Do you have your cloak or Time Turner?"

"No, they took everything," Hermione said, "but we can..." The mirror went black. Hermione looked at it for a second, then started running, impossibly fast, as Professor Sprout shouted at her to stop. Hermione didn't even slow down as she snatched up Professor Sprout's wand.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall straightened her hat and rubbed her eyes. Still no sign of Mr. Potter. She'd handled coordination, looping back to the same hour over and over again, trying to use the final moments to narrow down what had happened, and where, while being careful to avoid witnessing the event and locking something critical. She'd sent Lockhart, Slughorn, Flitwick and Sprout back the full five hours to investigate. (Because she herself had gone back an hour, they were limited to five hours. She'd told them to use their discretion as to what to investigate and when to re-loop). After she'd made her sixth and final jump back an hour, the others had reported in. She'd heard about the damage, the signs of Fiendfyre. Several students had been seen in multiple places at the same time. Miss Granger was missing, as was her Phoenix.

Hogwarts was infiltrated, perhaps as many as a dozen wizards. Her office had been burned. Harry's too.

Nobody seemed able to find Harry Potter. And, as near as everyone could tell, the infiltration had happened at least a few hours before the student died. She could hear the third of Harry's Heuristics. _Anyone clever will make sure that going back six hours won't be enough._ This was not an idle threat. This was a clever attack. _Like last year._

At least Pomona had finally located Hermione, but they'd taken her Cloak. And, ominously, her Time Turner.

Harry had explained the key to successfully navigating time loops was secrecy. That's when he'd disclosed that Hermione owned the True Cloak of Invisibility - a gift from Albus Dumbledore, he'd explained - should the Headmistress ever need it.

You could use a regular cloak of invisibility, as Minerva had for the past (repeated) hour. But with the True Cloak she could have risked more, watched the future unfold and then gone back with the information. If it had only been one student's life, she would have.

The Headmistress didn't see a way to prevent the future, which left Heuristic #5 - _In the worst case, have the cavalry arrive at the exact moment of crisis. It's not ideal, but it's better than nothing._

She picked up her mirror.

"Mr. Thicknesse. I have information from twenty two minutes in the future. At precisely that time, send all available Aurors into Hogwarts. I'll lower the wards then and provide details... I don't know...I'm afraid all I can say is that it will be bad."

Minerva would cry later. For now, she had twenty one minutes to prepare. She spoke in a loud confident voice, to the empty room.

" _In twenty one minutes, only a single student will die._ "


	56. Bluff and Double Bluff, pt 4

Gilderoy Lockhart poked his head around the corner, then rapidly pulled it back. He dropped to the ground as spells blazed through the now-empty doorway. Lockhart cautiously raised himself back to a crawl and shuffled back a pace or two.

"I count five of them," he said. "A _praesidium_ spell as their major defense, beyond that they are just using the beds for cover."

Auror Frank Wellington, a tall wiry man, with energy like someone had captured a lightning bolt and frozen it in place, shook his head. "Those bed frames are enchanted, too. Not totally impenetrable, but they'll stop most things."

Professor Flitwick let out an exasperated sigh, which came out as a mid-pitch squeak. Wellington just shrugged his shoulders. "It's meant to be a defensible position."

Flitwick, Lockhart and the three Aurors conferred. The _Praesidium_ would block any spell moving too quickly, but a slow spell could get through. It also didn't stop anything physical.

The small-ish Auror, whose name Gilderoy had forgotten, said "The only real option is to charge, and we'd be sitting ducks. The rest of the squads are coming into from the back, we'll have numbers shortly."

"Listen, Todd," said Christine, the third Auror, "You know what they say about the job, _two years of boredom for two minutes of terror._ I didn't sign up to miss out on my two minutes."

Gilderoy chuckled. He _did_ know Christine - they'd been in Ravenclaw together. Their months together weren't boring. And they'd had at least five minutes of terror of being discovered. She'd been a firecracker as a young woman, and that hadn't changed. Still...Gilderoy agreed with Todd. He was about to raise the point when there was a rustling from the hallway behind him and he spun, quickly adjusting his _custodiet_ shield to protect against an ambush. Theoretically there were only Hogwarts professors and Aurors behind him, but ...

Gilderoy Lockhart stopped mid-spell as Hermione Granger skidded to a halt.

"General Granger," Gilderoy said, still wearing the smile he'd had from his earlier reminiscing.

"Go away, Miss," said Frank, "This isn't the place for students."

 _"Polyjuice,"_ whispered Flitwick quietly, reminding everyone. Hermione had her hands up, but gave no sign of leaving.

"I can help, Professor, I can!" She didn't plead. _Hermione Granger seems twice her age. Either its not her or this is personal,_ Gilderoy thought.

"Tell me something only Hermione Granger would know."

"Uh, during Christmas Break we ran into each other at _The Tragedy of Light_ and Narcissa was mad at Draco and tried to insult me with some floriography, so I just ..."

"Anyone could have read about that in the gossip sheets, Miss Granger," Professor Lockhart said.

"They printed that?" Hermione gasped in a voice squeakier than Flitwick's, before turning bright red..

"...but no imposter would use that particular phrasing. Or blush so much," Gilderoy finished as he lowered his wand, nodding to the scowling Aurors. Hermione ran over. Professor Flitwick stood in her way, preventing her from advancing any further towards the door, face stern.

"Listen, Lockhart," said Christine, and the use of his last name grabbed his attention, "we're in charge and I'm not going to let a student..."

Gilderoy shushed her and waved his hand, then bent down and huddled next to Hermione, "We need to outflank them. Miss Granger, can your Phoenix move us into position? There are wards around Peverell, but it's possible to move inside those wards, if not through them. If we step one foot in..."

"They trapped him!" she started to describe what had happened, but Gilderoy stopped listening and after a few more words Hermione Granger collapsed from his wordless _Somnium._ He caught her gently.

"Seriously, Christine," Gilderoy shook his head, "Do you really think I'd let a second year charge into battle? I'll drag her back to safety. Horace should have has stock of potions back in the staging area, and I think some explosive draughts and _caligo noctus_ should work nicely."

Gilderoy Lockhart easily picked up the limp form of Hermione Granger, glancing at the wand still clasped in her hand. "And I'll give Pomona her wand back. What _have_ you been up to, Miss Granger?" he chuckled.

"Bring along some House Elves," said Frank, "in case they get desperate and start flinging killing curses."

Gilderoy nodded as he rushed back towards the infirmary.

* * *

Selwyn's vision dropped out instantly as black smoke flooded into the room. He'd seen the fragile flasks as they'd arced to various corners of the room and shouted out a warning. Selwyn kept his left hand on the robed figure next to him, so that he could tell if she got hit or move away, while he counted in his head _eins zwei drei._ Selwyn fired off several spells at the doorway. The room exploded with noise, a weaponized _Sonorus_ spell that Aurors world-wide used to intimidate crowds. They'd prepared for that, of course. His shields automatically muted any dangerously loud sounds, but still allow him to hear as the footsteps moved. The witch next to him was spraying area effect curses to the left of the doorway and Selwyn heard a shield crackling, so he shifted and fired to the left. Already the fog was disappearing, it would be gone soon.

"They are through," he cried out in German. _They wouldn't release the fog until they were all in._ "Fall back while we have cover!" Selwyn got up, turned and ran, careful to jump over the corpse he knew was beside him. He easily jumped, but his legs felt strangely numb and seemed sluggish. When he landed his right leg wasn't positioned properly and gave out from under him. Selwyn raised his arms to protect his face from the impact of landing, but his right arm moved a bit sluggishly and he cracked his face against the floor.

Selwyn looked down at his leg and he could see that he'd broken his right leg when he'd landed. _That should hurt_ he thought, as he tried to scramble up, but his motions were like trying to swim in a pool of syrup, slow and awkward. The fog had cleared and he was out in the open and Selywn tried to drag himself away as he could hear them screaming for him to get up.

 _But no spell hit me_ was Selwyn's final thought as the Aurors closed in and fired slow moving draining spells.

* * *

"Draco!" Gilderoy's face edged towards a smile, then quickly turned to a frown as he strode towards his student, who stood poking one of the blood red stones on the floor with his cane to move it into the pile of known fakes. By now word of the _Midas curse_ had spread.

Gilderoy continued "What are you doing here, Draco?"

The Aurors were busy securing the remaining prisoners, carefully avoiding the other seven or eight red stones scattered around the room. Draco turned and looked at him for a second, confusion on his face. _Draco knows everyone,_ Gilderoy thought as he screamed out "Imposter!" and raised his wand. The surrounding Aurors - adrenaline still fresh and flowing through their systems - all shifted wands, about to fire at somebody, anybody, as 'Draco' dove behind the nearest bed.

"Orion Elbow Purple," screamed 'Draco.' " _Orion Elbow Purple_!"

Gilderoy's spell streaked through the air where 'Draco' had stood while a rush of Aurors lowered their wands, shouting that Draco was an Auror.

Gilderoy noted several Aurors aimed wands on him, though at least one still had 'Draco' in his sights.

He spoke slowly and deliberately. "That is not Draco."

"I'm Auror Mike Li," came Draco's voice. "The password of the day is Orion Elbow Purple! The Aurors in the room are Frank Wellington, Aleister Seville, uh..." Draco's head poked over the bed as he glanced around the room, "Christine King is just walking into the room. I don't know you, the tall one, but you don't work in Peverell..."

The tall one said "Nicodemus Salamander."

Gilderoy's wand stayed up. "Attackers Polyjuiced as students," he said, voice unsure.

"And Professors," said one of the Aurors. Gilderoy lowered his wand. "I suppose we just need to keep each other in sight for the next few hours until it wears off. Or doesn't, in my case."

As they sized each other up, Christine walked over and said. "I'll vouch for him, we went to school together. This is Professor Lockhart. Gilderoy. I found Draco ... he's in the other room."

Gilderoy looked at her. "I'm sorry," she said, face ashen. Gilderoy Lockhart ran into the other room.

Draco Malfoy was sprawled face up on the ground with a surprised look etched on his face. His cane was still in his hand. As soon as he saw it, Gilderoy spun on the following 'Draco,' who had his hands up in surrender. "How is it that..."

"He gave me a copy of his cane during the attack," Mike Li said, but already his form was bubbling and growing to full size, and Gilderoy could see in the corner of his eyes that the other Aurors recognized the former Draco. "He'd been doing a security test, he just happened to be here during the attack..." As the Auror continued speaking he stretched out and grew, skin and hair darkening as he reverted back to his true form, and Gilderoy's hand dropped, wand drooping almost to the ground.

"I was supposed to protect him," Lockhart said morosely.

A sly chuckle came from a bound figure lying on the ground, a blonde witch with splotchy complexion. Two Aurors were still securing her. "He'd have died in any case, once he'd finished betraying you..." she laughed.

Gilderoy's eyes narrowed and his wand barely had to move at all as he hissed out the word _**Crucio**._

The witch's scream pierced through the room for thirty seconds before the Aurors broke through Lockhart's shields.

* * *

Harry sat back in his chair, throat sore. Amelia Bones and Headmistress McGonagall exchanged a glance. Professor Asimov, who had been staring at the ceiling, returned his gaze to the assembled crowd.

"Anyway," Harry said, "That's pretty much the end. They found Draco's body next to the real Philosopher's Stone, and what with all the _Midnight Fog_ and the chaos of battle, it's an open question if that body belongs to Draco, or he managed to grab the stone and permanently PolyJuice into someone else's form and that body is someone we assumed burned to death in the Fiendfyre."

Harry waited for crosstalk and challenges that never came. Hermione's face, set like granite, gave no indication of any emotion. Harry knew Professor Asimov wouldn't volunteer any suggestion, although he had expected more questions. _Ignorance doesn't indicate a problem, just a lack of knowledge._ The Headmistress seemed annoyed by Harry's version of her defense. _She hadn't done anything wrong, but she still blames herself for not finding a way to save Neville._ Harry suspected this was another time when Minerva wanted someone to lash out at her, but she'd been blameless. _She's growing into her new position well, and if she is no Albus Dumbledore ... well, few are._

Harry sighed internally, _people are so afraid of going first and looking foolish. "_ I can't believe you don't have questions. When I went through the full transcripts I had dozens."

"Such as?" The Headmistress asked.

Harry shook his head, "I don't want to prejudice things."

Hermione didn't say anything. She and Harry had already argued what it meant that her pouch and wand had been next to her bed when she awoke. Draco had apparently sent it up there at some point during the night. Harry just said that it means that Draco knew he couldn't smuggle them into Peverell, and thankfully didn't realize what he'd gotten. Draco had managed to acquire two of the three Deathly Hallows before even setting foot in Peverell, and he'd given both back. To Harry's mind, that meant Draco never even knew what he'd done. Hermione argued he'd done that fighting the Imperius. Now she'd conceded the point.

 _She argued against Draco last Spring,_ Harry thought. _Now she defends him._ But he understood the impulse. Harry still felt the urge to defend Draco. _Why can't I ever have an enemy I instinctively dislike?_

Amelia Bones spoke first, "What was Draco's original plan?"

Harry nodded, "I don't know. I can't see how this works unless Draco had a full fledged battle raging around him. He can't get at his equipment without some distraction. Part of me thinks Draco always intended Neville to die," Harry shot Hermione a glance, but again her face revealed nothing, "but he may have had another trick up his sleeve."

"Why now," Hermione asked quietly.

Harry nodded, "That's been troubling me. Undoubtedly the exact timing is convenience, but something changed. Maybe Draco just felt that he couldn't let things go on. It may be that the discovery of the Map gave him the impetus. I'm going to question Lockhart and Slughorn tomorrow. Maybe they can shed some light on this."

"If Draco did escape," asked Professor Asimov, "How?"

"Well, if he was Polyjuiced he may have just gotten away in the final minutes and walked out. He had to be gone before the full investigation, because then Aurors were checking everyone with Legillmency. But he could have dived out a hole. Even then, he'd have to make his way to the wards to avoid the anti-Portkey measures the Aurors raised around Hogwarts. Still, I can think of several ways around that. It doesn't matter too much, although it is an interesting question."

Harry couldn't bring himself to admit which answer he hoped was true. IF Draco lived.

"Auror Li didn't see a Portkey among Draco's items," said the Headmistress.

"Which may just mean that he didn't recognize it. That fits with Draco's _modus operandi_ during the entire affair. We also don't know what Draco's third potion was. In any case, how Draco left isn't really as much of a concern as how we handle the fact that Draco might still be alive."

"You want us to announce that Draco survived?" Amelia Bones sounded incredulous.

"No!" Harry said abruptly, "Sorry, that wasn't my intent. We have to decide what we're going to do about the current situation. All of this happened because Draco didn't trust me. And, well, we've been lying. For a good cause, but I just thought perhaps we lay out my past to the Wizengamot and ..."

 _Now_ the room explodes in cross talk and challenges, Harry thought as the voices climbed over each other.

"Absolutely not," said Minerva McGonagall over the others, silencing them. "As someone who has experienced Harry Potter first hand, you do have your charms. But your natural tendencies make people slow to warm up to you and quick to judge. If they believed you were Voldemort, they would stop thinking."

"They would remember that you frightened a Dementor," Amelia Bones said, "and naturally go _'Aha! Of course!'_ Well, obviously Lord Voldemort frightens Dementors, that makes sense. It's a convenient, easy to believe narrative."

"Hermione destroyed five Dementors," Harry said, but he said it softly. He'd brought the others in for their political advice. _It would be foolish to just reject it out of hand_. "In any case, the story is already out there. If we say that yes, magically speaking I'm ... Voldemort's son, say ... we can point out I wasn't raised by him and _his sins are not mine_."

"Dumbledore knew," Hermione said, "and he didn't tell anyone."

Harry shook his head. "Dumbledore cheated, Hermione. He clearly had extra-temporal information that he used to maneuver me. Which means we can't really base our of decision making, apart from a moral standpoint, on him."

The discussion flared, growing more heated, before dimming again, and they did not break until well past midnight.


	57. Asking the Right Questions

Horace Slughorn waited in his cell. He'd already read the disintegrating magazines from cover to back, slowly. Repeatedly. The newest magazine held, among other things, birth and death announcements and he'd discovered Eupraxia Mole's obituary, which gave a slightly more flowery description of her negotiated truce with Peeves and why he agreed to relinquish the crossbows he'd somehow pilfered and taken to firing at students. Apart from that story none of the names meant anything to Horace, who considered himself fairly well connected, and aware of the various lineages.

The cell's surprisingly comfortable leather chair was padded enough to sleep in. There was no restroom, but since he'd been here Horace hadn't felt the need to go ... or to eat, for that matter. Horace Slughorn's stomach rarely complained, he ate well at Hogwarts and kept a supply of luscious snacks. But while he didn't need food, Horace missed the social and aesthetic pleasure of eating. His cell had no windows, just steady artificial lights. He could raise or lower the intensity, which was useful when taking a nap, but left him with no means to judge the passage of time.

He'd paced for what felt like hours, waiting. Horace knew he'd failed to kill Tom Riddle, and that meant he was in for an ugly end. Riddle dare not kill him right away, he was still in a young man's body and would have to bide his time, so Horace would be shipped off to the newly remodeled, Dementor-less version of Azkaban. There he would stay until he met with an unfortunate accident, or would perhaps be released after twenty-five years, only to disappear.

Such was the price of failing to kill Tom Riddle. He had all the time in the world to ponder it.

Undoubtedly that was their intent: leaving him here, alone, with his thoughts. The Aurors had questioned him under Veritaserum, and he'd answered truthfully enough. After all, some Aurors may be inclined to believe him. Barnaby Daksus was still an Auror, close to halfway through his career. Slughorn remembered recommending him for the job, had written a glowing letter about the lad's potions skills. Barnaby, now balding and his once-slim frame was burdened with a thick gut, but he was still remarkably handsome, had led the interview.

Horace described every detail, every single damning fact he could. But, as the Head of Slytherin he doubted most aurors would trust his facts. Still, Horace made sure that they were all truthful. _Young Daksus will investigate. For me,_ Slughorn thought.

After conducting the interview Barnaby had returned him here. While it sat empty they'd upgraded his cell, added more security including a Thief's Downfall on the inside of the doorway. _More intimidation tactics_ , he thought. But Barnaby would help him. Barnaby couldn't risk his career with such a public case. But he'd help his mentor, no doubt. Not by something so foolish as plotting an escape - _I may be many things, but I am not an overly optimistic fool_ , thought Horace - but he'd make sure that Horace didn't vanish before his trial. Barnaby would ensure that the information got out, at least to sympathetic aurors.

Horace lowered the lights again, imagining what he'd say when Harry Potter came in and made his denials or clever threats. _I've made my bed, mustn't cower and hide._ In some ways the thought of cowering and begging was laughable, but too many had simply gone missing during Voldemort's shadowy campaign, and only a hand would be found. Or a slightly singed hat, made stiff and brittle from the fire. A slender birch wand, snapped in half. Entire families gone, nobody remaining in a pristine house except for the baby crying, still in its crib, barely alive. _It's easy to be brave now, but when he arrives..._

* * *

Gilderoy Lockhart looked up as the door to his cell opened, then smiled weakly. "I'd heard you'd recovered from Horace's attack. Would you prefer to be called General Potter? Or Harry? Or ..." Gilderoy shrugged, and left the sentence unfinished.

Harry looked around Lockhart's cell. It wasn't as spacious but was comfortably stocked, as these things went. Quills and parchment littered the surface of the crowded writing desk, besides a replenishing pitcher of water. Some glasses sat besides an empty plate and utensils. Harry spied a stack of _Daily Prophets_ with today's edition resting on top.

Until recently (as wizards counted things) even Muggle prisons allowed well-to-do prisoners to bring in additional comforts, with friends or family of the prisoner bringing in food, reading material, and other provisions, typically for a small fee to the wardens. In the 1800s and earlier it wasn't even illegal, just a typical allowance and a way for the government to skimp on paying guards. Everyone knew of the Tower of London, of course. But Newgate was infamous for the Sheriff charging even poor prisoners for every single convenience, such as being let out of chains. Only recently had reforms attempted to make prison slightly more egalitarian. Serving a sentence had always been easier for the wealthy and well-connected.

Harry sighed.

 _Of course,_ Ravenclaw said, with a mental shrug. _Lockhart fought along-side the aurors. He arguably saved at least one of their lives. Most of them would have crucio'd any witch who killed their fellow Aurors. If they'd thought they could get away with it, anyway. Did you really expect the guards to treat him poorly?_

Slytherin broke in. _The rank and file DMLE remain cautious. They don't know what to think about you. That's what's important now. Word about this is already spreading. Your actions now will affect their opinions._

Harry sat down, setting up the automatic transcription quill and scroll. "Harry will do now, I suppose. I've never stood on formality."

Harry paused, then said, "Follow on questioning of Gilderoy Lockhart under two drops of Veritaserum." He spoke the words quietly, and the quill perked up and wrote, triggered by his words. Gilderoy went over to his bunk and sat down, cross legged, on top of his blanket.

"I was not aware any further confusion remained about the attack or my crimes," said Lockhart. Harry had watched the Aurors dose him twenty minutes ago. He'd been tempted to go with the full three drops, but had decided against it. For one thing, it made conversations confusing, and in any case there were the Aurors to consider.

"Crime, singular. The only pending charge is your use of the Cruciatus spell," Harry said. "The confusion is more about Draco's involvement."

"I don't know anything about that," said Gilderoy. "As I testified before."

"And I believe you, of course. But you said you promised to keep Draco safe. The aurors never followed up on your motives. You said 'I promised to protect him.' Who did you promise?"

"I promised Lady Malfoy, of course," said Lockhart, briefly pausing before continuing ( _probably compelled,_ Harry thought) "and my position implied protecting the students under my charge and my promise to the Headmaster."

Ravenclaw repeated back the last word, _Headmaster. Not Headmistress._

" _Albus Dumbledore_ made you promise to protect Draco Malfoy?"

"Not by name, no. Dumbledore told me that there would be a student in dire need of my help at Hogwarts this year, and that it was vitally important. But he never said a name. Or even a House. In fact, he never used the word 'he' or 'she,' so I didn't even have that. He just said 'a student,' one that would be in my lectures, and that I'd know which one."

Harry paused for a second. "When was this?"

"I don't remember the exact date, but I was back in London and Dumbledore, Alastor Moody and a team of aurors had just broken into my cousin's house ..."

Harry's mind reached back to that night last spring, when he dueled Mad-Eye Moody. Dumbledore and Mad-Eye had then arranged a raid on Gilderoy Lockhart under suspicion of being Voldemort's thrall. Harry had pleaded for them to be careful, and asked that they not use the raid as a fishing expedition into the man's crimes.

"...anyway, after apologizing Dumbledore told me that he needed my assistance next year, teaching Defense, and that there was a particular student ..."

Harry thought. _Dumbledore had access to every prophecy, and has already demonstrated the ability to subtly alter events years into the future._ Dumbledore had been trapped in the Mirror of VEC, supposedly outside of time itself. Harry considered, not for the first time, that Dumbledore's 'curse' might have enabled Dumbledore to provide information to his younger self, well outside of the normal 6 hour limit.

 _He might have also told himself to nudge Lockhart. It's less ridiculous than destroying my pet rock. And if Dumbledore is behind this...  
_

Harry set aside the thought, for now. "When did you believe it was Draco?"

"On Harry Potter Day. Draco found me and begged me to lock away some of his memories for his own safety. Draco was frantic, flushed like he'd been in a fight or argument, and that stood out because even when being bullied, Draco often projected an air ... ah, yes, I can see you know what I mean. I try to display a quiet competence, but perhaps I come across as trying too hard. Draco had none of that. I tried to talk him out of it, of course. But I was already half convinced this was what Dumbledore had been talking about. Even in my day The Headmaster had a reputation for being not just a few steps ahead but several mad leaps and a game of hopscotch. It felt like a Dumbledore thing."

Harry nodded. _It does, at that. At least for Dumbledore's insane public persona._ "And what convinced you?"

"Draco had been trying to impress upon me the severity of his problem, but refused to tell me what he knew that needed to be locked away, and he said - I remember it quite distinctly - ' the eyes of the basilisk are nearby, and always searching.'"

Harry waited for the end of the story for a second.

"And? That was a phrase Dumbledore used? Or told you?"

" _Seeker in a Storm?"_ Gilderoy paused and looked quizzically for a second, then snapped his fingers. "Sorry! Muggleborn. Slipped my mind for a second. _Seeker in a Storm_ is a play about a lone Auror who hunts down _Paramoions_ , monsters that imitate people. They're not harmless, but not massively dangerous like an Aliquid in that their imitation isn't perfect and they breed slowly and prefer to blend into society. Like a cuckoo, not a voracious predator. Anyway, in the play the Auror slowly begins to suspect that he's actually a Paramoions that has been confounded."

Harry sat there and looked at Gilderoy Lockhart with growing incredulity as he explained.

"And _that_ convinced you? No pass-phrase, no code to recognize. Draco recited a line to a play that dramatically conveyed growing paranoia, and you said 'Well, this must be it?'"

"Obviously," said Lockhart, no longer smiling, "As I told you this under Veritaserum."

While Hufflepuff chided Harry for his mocking tone, Harry took several deep breaths and counted internally to ten. He mentally adjusted his internal persona to _flawed adolescent genius forgetting his place,_ which wasn't much of a stretch.

"I am sorry, Professor. I've been ambushed several times in the last week and between that and not being able to find a definitive chain of events ... so, you locked away Draco's memory. How did you arrange when to unlock them? Did Draco just give you a time, or tell you to watch for something..."

"Draco picked another line from the play, 'The eyes of the Basilisk are on you.' Or was it 'Upon you?' In either case in January I unlocked his memories. A simple _Eunoe_ spell."

"So, Draco had the memory of you locking his memories, but not of the conversation with you?"

Harry wasn't entirely sure of how the Eunoe spell worked, but that seemed like a huge flaw. _The existence of a locked memory wouldn't slow down an Legilemens much. He'd just unlock it._ And if Draco didn't have the memory that he'd asked for this.

"No...," said Gilderoy, frowning in thought, "...I locked up the entire encounter. Draco asked me lock up a large chunk of time and to just have him wake up at his desk. So how did he remember the pass phrase?"

Harry nodded. Professor Lockhart had taken longer, but he'd seen it.

"He decided on the phrase beforehand and told an accomplice. Someone who decided when the time was correct, then told Draco to go see you." Harry offered.

"That makes sense. Although, Draco was terrified when he came to give me the pass phrase. He thought I'd ambush him or attack him."

Harry thought about this while asking Professor Lockhart a few more questions, pinning down the details and timeline of Draco, but Gilderoy didn't have many details (beyond the fact that Draco had his Armageddon Robe already in January). The first thought of accomplice was Neville, but had Draco been close enough at that point? Unlikely. Gregory was too close, but if Draco was trying to hide a fact from Harry, Gregory would be a poor choice. _Still, if Gregory didn't know but was just watching for a signal, it would work. But only if the signal was not related to me._ Harry was still left with the fact that he didn't know what change had triggered this. _Another line of investigation,_ he thought as he finished up his questioning and stood up.

"Thank you, Professor. Also, I wanted to thank you for keeping Hermione out of that battle."

"You are welcome, Harry Potter," the smile had returned to Gilderoy's face. "You know, all this time you haven't asked me what I believe about you. Or why I _crucio'd_ that witch."

Harry paused. "Those aren't really relevant to my investigation, I know the Cruciatus is Unforgivable, but there are levels. Yours was a heat of the moment crime, and it was wrong, but more indicative of frustration and anger than a deep seated hatred of humanity or anything like that. In this case 'Unforgivable' is more figurative than literal. There's a motion in the Wizengamot to just give you a slap on the wrist, as these things go."

"Well then, I hope I have your vote, Lord Potter. And you said crime, singular. So you know who murdered that attacker after he'd been knocked out? Who is charged? This is another one of those crimes where the criminal deserves a slap on the wrist, or possibly a commendation. I'd like to know whose wand killed the wizard that murdered Neville Longbottom."

Harry gathered up his transcript and equipment as he spoke.

"Nobody's wand. There was no trace of a lethal spell on his body, so I sent the corpse to some Muggle experts and they found a remarkably high level of toxins inside him. They said that he died by a snake bite on the shoulder. Draco killed Selwyn before you even got there, without his victim even noticing."

 _Was it vengeance, or just balancing out the two sides,_ Slytherin asked.

"Then I have some skill as a teacher after all," Gilderoy said with pride to Harry Potter's retreating form.

* * *

The crash of the Thief's Downfall woke Horace Slughorn, who opened his eyes to see Professor Asimov startled by the liquid crashing around him.

"Clever," Horace said, sitting up in his chair. "Sending my friends to interrogate me. And the Downfall means you aren't Imperiused, Isaac. So I can trust you. Assuming that is a real downfall, I suppose."

Isaac pawed at his hair, which had bounced away from his scalp after it magically dried. "I'm not here to interrogate you, Horace. They have others for that. I assume they do, anyway. I'm here to convince you that you are mistaken about Mr. Potter."

"Convince me?" Horace snorted, "No offense, Isaac, I truly do count you as a friend, but even though you aren't Imperiused, you labor under a false memory charm. For nearly a year, ever since Tom Riddle recruited you. I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry. Some good news, though. You are useful to Tom Riddle and, as a squib, completely harmless. I imagine you'll outlive me by decades, Isaac."

Isaac Asimov leaned against the wall and stuck his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. For a moment he reveled in his youth, being able to casually stand and lean. Even after a year he rejoiced at his stamina. "Why would he need to fake my memories, if Harry were Voldemort? I'm an ignorant squib. Harmless, like you say. He could recruit me without a false memory charm and I wouldn't know Voldemort from Van de Kampf. You misjudged him, Horace. He's just a boy. Perhaps he started out as some simulacrum of Voldemort's, can you blame him for hiding that fact? You're the Head of Slytherin. You murder wars when they are babes in cribs. Surely you of all people understand the need for secrecy, even for the innocent."

"A compelling argument, except that Tom Riddle's persona of Harry Potter professes not to believe it. _'Speak the truth, though your voice trembles.'_ That's one of his maxims."

"Some muggles have a saying, Horace: _Speak the truth, then leave the room quickly._ You are confusing the morality of truth-telling with the impracticalities of how mobs think. In the real world people compromise their standards. There are no super-heroes in this story, Horace."

"He's practically run the government for over a year, Isaac. He's secretly a copy of Voldemort. I can't _know_ what he's plotting, but I can try to make amends and protect others. For once, Isaac. Draco told me of a story you wrote, called Gentle Vultures. You exhort the reader to not be profiteering scavengers after the war, but exhort them to step in and prevent war. Well, I tried. I gave up my comfortable life to kill and expose Voldemort before he divided us, before he gained power. Here I sit, no gentle vulture in this cage, Isaac. If I have one hope left, I'd hope that you appreciate what I've done and remember me well."

Isaac Asimov stared at his friend for a second, the lowered his face to his chest.

"I am proud, Horace. And I'm not the only one. You've made an understandable mistake. The Headmistress believes in you. Amelia Bones believes it. Even Harry understands. Nobody wants you to waste away your life. We're trying to fix it."

Isaac could hear Slughorn getting out the the chair to walk around, the sound of flesh pulling away from leather filled the small room. "Tell me, Horace, would this false memory charm leave traces? I mean, that another experienced wizard could detect?"

"Of course, depending on how skillful and how much time you had to investigate ..." Horace said, falling silent as Isaac Asimov removed his hand from his jacket pocket.

"Well, here's your wand, then. I'm trusting you to leave my memories alone, but aurors are watching to prevent your escape. We have nothing but time."

* * *

The carriage started up, heading back to Hogwarts and Professor Asimov said "Thestrals," to the boy sitting across from him. Harry Potter looked up from the scroll he'd been reading.

"What about them?" Harry asked.

"They're called Thestrals. Draco told me about them. He couldn't see them and seemed confused when I mentioned them, but he promised me to research invisible skeletal horses. A few days later he handed me an obscure book - something out of a horror movie really, leather bound and it even made a slight moaning noise when you opened it. But when I opened the book to the page Draco had marked with a feather, well, there was a picture. A sketch really, and a long essay about them. I told Draco thank you. I hadn't forgotten about it, not by any means, but it was such a minor thing."

Professor Asimov leaned forward and looked out the window. _Such a noble means of travel, of a bygone time that I can barely remember,_ _when I was a child_. The city fell away behind them.

"And now you tell us that Draco, at that time, was busy planning a suicide mission. Or planning to fake one. He still took time out of his schedule to answer my question. Always polite. _But he couldn't see the Thestrals._ Draco was ... innocent of death. And now he's able to see the Thestrals, but he's not here. Something about that strikes me as poetic. Sorry, I sound ridiculous."

Harry looked out the window at the Thestrals, cantering at a slow pace, leathery wings stretching and relaxing with each pace, like tightly-laced accordions somehow propelling their movement. Harry sat back in his chair and looked at Isaac Asimov. "A few months after I saw my first Thestral I learned that I don't have to hate my enemies, Professor. I just have to defeat them. How is Professor Slughorn?"

"It's an odd feeling, having him root around my memories. He definitely didn't trust the last few days visions, and the explanation you provided last night, but he seemed to place some stock in my older memories, why is that?"

"Well, to fake a memory takes roughly as long as the time you are faking, and skill. The last few days I would have an obvious incentive to fake, I could have ordered a minion to spend a few days altering that. But even Voldemort couldn't guess which memories he'd inspect, over the last year."

"Well, I do hope you can convince him, and get him out of that cage," said Professor Asimov. "I don't like seeing him in there, but what just happened gives me the creeps."

"Having your memory invaded does that," Harry said.

"I meant being a con man, I'm not cut out for it." Harry started to say something, but Isaac was still talking.

"Not in the sense that you are Voldemort. 'Con man' is a funny phrase. On one level it means grifter. But the old etymology comes from 'Confidence man.' You trick someone not by gaining their confidence. You trick them by demonstrating absolute confidence in them. That's powerful. You know that of course, which is why you suggested letting Horace rummage around my head with his own wand. A powerful display of your confidence in him. Proving that you had nothing to hide, not really. What if he'd taken that wand and committed suicide, hm? What then? I assume he could do it, cast the killing curse at himself."

"I won't say I hadn't thought of it," Harry said levelly, "I judged it unlikely that he'd kill himself to avoid torture. He knows that even if I am Voldemort I can't be blatant, and he still has some influence, while alive."

"And if he'd come around and believed you weren't Voldemort? Did you consider that he might commit suicide rather than admit he was wrong?"

Harry started to protest, "People do kill themselves to avoid shame, but I don't think..."

"Well, you don't know him well. I think he might have. Perhaps I was being too cautious, but I'm not an interrogator or a confidence man. I ended it before we got that far. Horace was shaken, and I got worried. Give him some time to recover. I'll talk to him again, but only as a guest, not as an agent. I'll be your adviser, but Horace is my friend. He should walk out of prison alive, after he's served his time."

They rode the rest of the way back to Hogwarts in silence.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- Thanks to u\veruchai for proofreading. As I made a few small edits afterwards, mistakes are still mine. This will be the only update this week, due to the (US) Thanksgiving Holidays.


	58. Bluff and Double Bluff, pt 5

_"Plotters never violate the Rule of Three, Father?"_

 _"They violate it all the time. The vast majority are idiots."_

 _"And what are the remainder?"_

 _"Desperate. Only the desperate take unreasonable risks."_

 _\- Lucius and Draco Malfoy_

* * *

 _Monday, November 4th, 1991._

"Who can tell me what Generals Potter and Malfoy did wrong and why it is that General Granger earned ten Quirrell points in yesterday's battle?" Professor Quirrell's voice resonated throughout all of the Defense hall, echoed by the monitors in front of each student. Draco's head tilted almost imperceptibly downward as he felt a stab of shame. The shame of losing, publicly losing.

 _Bad enough to have lost at all, but to a Mudblood?_ Draco berated himself for a moment, as he'd been doing since losing the first battle to Hermione Granger the day before. But then he heard the voice of Father, who sometimes spoke inside of his head.

 _Anyone may lose, my son. I have lost. A dozen Lord Malfoys have lost innumerable times throughout history. There is no shame in losing. Only shame in admitting defeat. Lose in battle, never lose faith._

Draco raised his chin to compensate for the earlier drop, then raised it more. His hand shot up, joining dozens of others. He noticed that Hermione wore an annoyed look on her face.

Professor Quirrell turned towards Draco and paused in his relentless to-and-fro across the front of the room. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy? Tell the class your mistake."

"General Potter and I underestimated General Granger. She's apparently overcome her lack of fighting spirit," he said with a practiced bemusement, earning chuckles from the class. Vincent let out a snort that Draco now recognized as a measured ironic comment. Mr. Crabbe sported a surprisingly nuanced sense of humour.

 _Thank Merlin for the lessons in public speaking,_ Draco thought, not for the first time today.

"Correct," said Professor Quirrell, drawling the word out where others would pause, "but not complete. General Potter?"

"General Granger delegated and trusted her troops more, instead of having a rigid command structure," Harry Potter said, with an embarrassed look on his face. _This hurts him, admitting his errors, and he doesn't hide showing it._ It also struck Draco as an odd statement, at least if what he'd heard about the Chaos Legion's fluid command structure was true. Still, he'd noticed Harry's precision about his words. Perhaps General Potter was admitting more (and less) than first appeared. _Perhaps Harry delegated, but didn't really trust them._ Draco filed away the thought for further review.

Professor Quirrell's voice ended Draco's reverie. "Also correct, although delegating and trusting carry their own dangers, One example is the problem of communicating and coordinating in a rapidly changing environment. Ah, I see that _Neville of Chaos,_ " at this Professor Quirrell's thin lips turned ever so slightly upward, "has my answer."

Neville Longbottom let out a deep breath, like he'd been holding it. "When General Granger's army was revealed to be alive, they didn't adjust their strategy."

Professor Quirrell's head tilted ever so slightly to the side, like a bird interested in a shiny rock. "They formed an alliance, Mr. Longbottom, whereas just before General Potter had been employing a muggle device to eviscerate General Malfoy's shields. Which reminds me, I disallow muggle devices in the future, Mr. Potter. While I admire the cleverness behind it, it hardly strikes me as sporting to your fellow students for you to reach into your bag of tricks and"

"But General Malfoy was..." Harry started up.

"This is the Hogwarts _School of Magic!_ " Professor Quirrell retorted, spinning to face Harry. His volume dropped back to normal, and he resumed his typical soothing lecture voice as he smiled.

"I only mention that in case it had slipped your mind, Mr. Potter. So if General Malfoy spends his time in the library," and with this, Professor Quirrell's smile broadened noticeably, and Draco felt a thrill as the Professor nodded in his direction, "studying supposedly-advanced spells that are clearly within the range of abilities of first year students - no matter what the Ministry says - then you can understand why I consider that a perfectly legitimate advantage. One that any of my apprentices can learn, should they choose to exert themselves. Incidentally, students who _do_ so choose will find that particular variant of the _Protego_ spell in the standard book of spells, third year. Of which there are multiple copies are in the library. A fact that had surely not escaped General Granger's notice, I imagine. There are nine standard variants, not all of which are within your grasp."

Draco followed Professor Quirrell's view as he swiveled his gaze to Harry Potter, who nodded and seemed satisfied by the answer. Professor Quirrell refocused on Neville. "Apologies, Mr. Longbottom, for my distraction. You say that the Generals did not modify their strategy, and I have responded that they formed an alliance. How do you answer that?"

Neville seemed to be having a problem dealing with suddenly being the focus of attention again, but he blurted out, "That wasn't really new, though was it? They could have done that earlier, but simply choose not to."

"Exactly," said Professor Quirrell, "allying was _required_ for either of them to have a hope of winning, but it was not, by itself, up to the task. No doubt if General Potter had been thinking clearly he would have realized that he himself could have fixed the main weakness of General Malfoy's _Protego_ spell - immobility - with his remaining troops. But he did not think of that. Apparently his cleverness is a limited resource, and he had run out."

Draco could see the barb had struck Harry, who now appeared deep in thought enumerating ways he could have done better. Draco realized that the statement didn't feel like it applied to him. There were several interpretations. One is that he was subtly courting Draco, but that didn't seem likely.

 _Does Professor Quirrell not expect me to be clever, as well?_

"It also strikes me odd that General Malfoy instinctively offered to ally with the apparently weaker of two sides," Professor Quirrell continued, sparing a glance at Draco. _That was my barb,_ and Draco realized the truth of it. He'd never considered asking for Hermione's help. _It would never have worked, but Professor Quirrell is right._

"Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Harry Potter thought of several tricks and deliberately decided not to use them. Perhaps Draco Malfoy did consider allying with Hermione Granger and realized his offer would be rejected, and he would look foolish. Did he also consider bribing General Granger's troops? Perhaps with offer of money, or a favor, such as a date?"

 _He's truly evil,_ Draco thought as Vincent let out another snort, and even Gregory sniggered.

"I would have course applauded that. And then I would ban outside considerations, for the same reason I've banned muggle devices. And, to be clear, I am banning them from this point forward. But," Professor Quirrell paused, and this time there was no drawl, just a brief silence, "it is my suspicion - backed by considerable experience - that by that point both losing Generals were operating as though _Confounded._ The battle had raged on too long. They were in a desperate, unexpected situation. They were _mentally tired_. And at that point, they shut down and just took the path of least _mental_ effort, despite the rather valiant magical effort displayed by all parties."

Professor Quirrell seemed to be fading, and he slid into his leather backed chair, but still spoke forcefully. "I hope that you never are on the losing side of a battle, my young apprentices. But I cannot promise you this. I do not blame people for battle fatigue, but it is real, as you've witnessed. I cannot teach you how to overcome it - not in a classroom anyway - but if you recognize it on the battlefield, that alone may inspire you to continue. To persevere. To make one more mental effort. It is a difficult lesson and there is no shame in having to learn it the hard war. Most wizards never learn it at all."

Draco glanced around the room. All the hands had fallen slowly down as Professor Quirrell had continued his lecture over the last few minutes, and many of the students looked thoughtful, at least among those not paying rapturous attention to the words being spoken.

"If it is any consolation to my defeated Generals, I suspect that if they _had_ produced such efforts, it would have been for naught. For the bleak truth is: When you find yourself in a losing situation, you often lose. That is personally why I _pretend to lose_ for that is a winning situation. But make no mistake, if you are _actually_ losing even the most cunning stratagem does not guarantee victory. The soon-to-be victors are well placed to counteract superior cunning with their own lesser efforts, or even brute force. And my lesson to you: _Try anyway!_ Any chance of victory is preferable to certain defeat. Do not act as though you were confounded! Maybe you will get lucky. Or perhaps the other forces will fall prey to overconfidence. Do not rely on luck, but do not discount it."

Professor Quirrell's voice was fading but still being repeated by the various monitors placed throughout the lecture hall. "In any case, if you are losing you have little left to lose. So - remain alive to your possibilities and you may yet remain alive."

Professor Quirrell barely got the words "Class dismissed" out of his mouth before he collapsed back into his chair, face lolling off to the side, eyes still open but apparently fast asleep. The monitors flickered out of existence as the class slowly got their feet.

* * *

 _March 7th, 1993, early am._

The battle ranged around Draco, hidden in a small closet, as he hurriedly worked but clumsily, hindered by hands much larger than he was used to. Draco's new hands didn't tremble, but their sheer size distracted him. Draco estimated his new body weighed nearly twenty stones, with height to match. His perspective was all wrong, too.

Earlier, Draco had hurriedly quaffed the second vial of polyjuice from the small spherical flask after adding the man's hair. And then poured Draco-laced polyjuice down the stunned man's throat. Much easier for a fully grown man to drag a small boy instead of the opposite.

 _We were insane, Neville,_ Draco thought. _We should have just destroyed Harry's base of support and fled.  
_

Draco felt the Philosopher's stone give a small twist in his hand. He set it aside and started to strip.

Draco's fingers moved clumsily as he stripped. Draco's robes had adjusted to his new size - as they were enchanted to do, but his handles felt alien as he undressed. He quickly slipped the tiny blond boy who used to be a man out of grossly over-sized robes and donned them, instinctively checking his pockets for any useful items. _A spare wand, good_. Draco slipped his own robes onto the other body. _I seem so small._ Draco's hands placed the silver ring he'd taken off earlier and slipped it onto the child's finger, then placed the Philosopher's stone on the slowly breathing chest and waited. The sounds of the battle grew closer, he could hear shouting and screams.

The stone twisted.

Draco took out his wand and leveled it towards the man now wearing his body.

"Avada Kedavra," Draco said quietly but nothing happened. _How can I not do this? How can I fail now?_ Draco tried again but the spell didn't work.

 _I should want this man dead_ , Draco thought, _he conspired to steal the Philosopher's Stone for himself_. _He no doubt planned on betraying me at the first opportunity._ Draco needed this man dead and cast around for a moment before remembering he now inhabited the body of a monstrous adult and the 'man' he needed to kill was now a small child. Draco reached down and wrapped his arms around the now-tiny neck, gripping the side of the head. Draco saw his victim's eyes open wide, suddenly awake and afraid.

Draco twisted hard and heard the snap.

 _I never even knew his name. Father told me that would make it easier._ Tears came to Draco's new eyes; he brushed them away. _I knew this path ... no, that is a distancing thought, I knew my plan required this. A few deaths, to save many._ Draco took the Sigil of House Malfoy and placed it in his doppelganger's hands, willing it to stay.

Draco glanced out of the room and tried to feel the shape of the battle. The experiences of the last two years hadn't prepared him for exactly this, but they mostly applied. Draco could hear another of Neville's arguments in his head, " _We've been fighting three way battles for two years, and the other two sides won't even know there's a third army!_ "

Judging from the noise, Hogwart's had launched another assault. Black fog coursed through the hospital, obscuring everyone's vision and providing cover. Draco quickly grabbed the body and dragged it through the door, staying low. _We've already won,_ Draco told himself as spells flew overhead. _Even if I die._ That thought calmed him down. His death would somehow make Neville's death fairer.

 _That thought is a pleasant falsehood, nothing more,_ Lucius said. _A Malfoy cheats death hundreds of times before succumbing._ Draco dragged the corpse to the middle of the room and left it there. He stood up and double checked, making sure the corpse looked like he had. Polyjuice made the body correct, but he inspected all the clothes and jewelry and placed a spare wand down on the ground. _This is as good a place as any_. Draco holstered his other stolen wand and grabbed the one he'd smuggled in his fake cane. He clutched it with both hands, it felt tiny now. Draco made his way toward the wall and - spotting a hole - sprinted the last few steps. Each stride covered a seemingly impossible distance.

Draco jumped through the hole in the wall and was outside in the clear night, falling. For a moment he felt frozen, staring at the moonlight above. Then sensation returned and he spun, rotating from the momentum of his jump and now Draco faced the ground below as it rushed up to meet him and Draco snapped the wand in half and felt the dislocating pull as his portkey dragged him away.

 _We did it, Neville. We were insane, but..._ Branches scraped Draco's face and he landed with a soft crunch into the dirt and leaves.

Draco rested in the ground for a moment, until finally he could think. _Apparently portkeys do not change your height above ground, or the speed you were going. Or maybe that just costs extra._ Draco blinked twice, tears coming out of his eyes. He rolled over. The canopy overhead blocked out the stars and the moon light. Draco could hear the battle raging, just barely. No portkey could take him outside of Hogwarts, not if aurors had set up anti-portkey enchantments. But those only warded the edges of Hogwarts. He'd only needed to escape from the battle, so a fast jump into the Forbidden Forest worked.

Draco rolled over, casting his eyes around for the small stone cairn he'd built last weekend. _It should be nearby_. As scary as the Forbidden Forest had felt last fall or even last weekend, at least it had been daytime. In the darkness, Draco heard every chitter and screech and distant moan, a small symphony of unexplained sounds hinting at unseen dangers. Draco saw the pile of rocks and pulled himself up to his feet and walked over. He carefully started take apart the mound.

 _Did you plan on sacrificing yourself, Neville? I didn't want to admit it, but you more than anyone hated Voldemort._ Draco had emphasized that he didn't think Harry would turn into Voldemort, still Neville had latched onto that fact. Draco knew it had been a risk that Neville would commit suicide instead of risk failure, perhaps because of fear, perhaps because of some nobility towards his parents loss, but Draco had minimized the risk in his mind. _I never should have involved you, Neville. Just trusted my own judgement. I thought I could guide you, but that was just hubris. This is my fault._ Draco tossed each rock aside in a different direction and recited the pertinent rule of the plan to himself. _Do not leave any trace. The plan won't work if you leave a trace._

Nobody had read Draco's mind during the Battle. That was the real risk. You can't _not think_ of a plan while carrying out the steps. If his silver ring had detected any mental intrusion Draco would have had to kill, right away. No hesitation. That had been another real risk, that he'd stumble onto someone paranoid and clever, like Alastor Moody. But that risk had been there every since he recovered his memories. It was one of Neville's more compelling arguments. Draco couldn't plan around Harry for years without involving other people, not unless each and every one were an Occlumens and trustworthy, a rare combination. This plan ( _this insane plan)_ involved lots of moving parts, but waiting and operating in solitude involved it's own set of risks. Easier to enumerate, but just as dangerous. _My only excuse is that we were truly desperate._

Leaving the ring behind hurt, it was a valuable tool to a plotter too young to know when someone was reading his mind. Leaving everything behind hurt. But it was necessary.

 _Even if I die tomorrow, I'll die anonymously. It will take weeks for them to untangle this. With the Marauder's Map Slughorn will generate months of problems for Harry._ That, combined with Draco's other surprises would drastically curtail Harry Potter's political power over the next few years. In that area, if nothing else, Draco could be sure.

A twig snapped. It was a surprisingly mundane sound in the middle of the forest and Draco turned around. His mind rebelled against looking at the figure in the Armageddon Robe, but he saw the wand pointed at him.

"What are you doing, Letholdus? Trying to escape with the stone by yourself?" The robe made the words sound like the screeching of nails on a chalkboard in Draco's mind. But Draco didn't recognize the speech pattern, or the wand.

 _Another attacker, probably watching from outside to delay the aurors._

"Escaping, but without the stone. The battle is lost, something went wrong and they were all over us from the beginning. All we can do is escape. I stashed some supplies earlier, just in case. Come on, help me."

"I'll take those, step away." Draco stepped away. It was hopeless. He couldn't out-duel any of the attackers or aurors, and this wasn't a duel. His wand was holstered. Draco could summon his cane but that would ruin all he'd worked for. _No, better to die._ _Dying was always the most likely outcome. Anyway, it would be disrespectful to Neville to throw it all away to save myself._

Given that, it was hopeless. Draco felt so tired of it all. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, resting.

 _And they were mentally tired... if you recognize it on the battlefield, that alone may inspire you to continue. To persevere. To make one more mental effort._

Draco opened his eyes, the memory of Professor Quirrell's lecture shocking him out of his reverie. _What do I know? What straws can I grasp at?_

Draco considered. His attacker knew his name, at least the name of Draco's body. They clearly weren't friends, not from the gesture - although he dare not read much into the tone of someone wearing Armageddon Robes. But, Draco was still alive and not killed outright. Presumably this attacker was watching to prevent treachery by Lockhart and Draco, a part of the plan not told to him before hand. _And why would they tell him?_ Those all struck Draco as reasonable assumptions. Time to decide on a strategy.

 _Bribery?_ No, anything he offered could simply be taken. _Pleading?_ Laughable. Karkaroff had assembled an elite group of murderers ( _like me,_ a small part of Draco interjected). These people had plotted for a month, fraying each other's nerves. Draco imagined they'd bickered and snapped with barely restrained hostility, vying for dominance. In any case, pleading might betray the fact that he wasn't Letholdus _.  
_

For once, Draco lacked a social advantage. What advantage did he have? The robed figure had pulled off the last few rocks and found the waiting pouch, which contained all of the money Draco had dared to smuggle out of his vault without risking discovery or looking like he'd been planning to run, along with some gold and jewels. Neville's supplies were stashed somewhere else, but Draco didn't have time to go out Neville's escape route.

It was still a handsome sum, several years of living expenses. He'd been spending extravagantly before he started this plan, which would help hide the wealth missing from his vault. That pouch represented a grand haul for any would-be thief, Mundungus Fletcher would have fainted if he'd glimpsed it. _But that pouch was paltry compensation if you'd planned to steal immortality itself_. Draco watched, thinking, and suddenly realized his advantage. It was admittedly slim, but if he failed... he had nothing to lose. And if he failed he'd leave no trace.

 _A win-win_ , Draco chuckled to himself morbidly.

"That's just the money. I'll go get the other stash. We'll need both to escape cleanly." The figure threw back her hood and the look she gave Draco - a look of greed mixed with caution- buoyed his spirits. Not only was she interested, Draco could now read her expressions, no longer shrouded in the hood of her robes. He didn't recognize her, which just confirmed that she wasn't part of the plan. At least the plan Draco knew about.

Draco took several steps to the left. He'd gathered his bearing now, and spoke confidently. "I know what all of you think of me, but there was always a chance of this bubbling over and I made preparations. I'm sorry, but what do you expect? Me to rot in jail with the rest of them?"

Draco ( _Letholdus, remember?_ Father's voice, said. _You are Letholdus. Don't think of yourself as Draco_ ) started walking more briskly, simply assuming that he would not get killed. He was judging his words based on watching the witch's reactions and right now instinct told Draco that her greed would keep him alive a bit longer. The witch had cast several spells and poured out the contents of the pouch before quickly returning them.

 _Just money, like I said._ "What's in the other pouch?" she asked.

"Things we'll need to escape. Once the battle is done the aurors will search the entire grounds. So I stocked ward breakers and a portkey. Only one, but we can share it." Draco hurried as much as he dared. He needed her greedy _and suspicious_.

"Stop." Draco stopped, obediently. Draco was sweating, but that helped. _Sweating is a natural reaction of being so close to death, and she'll naturally interpret that I'm afraid of her_.

"Show me," she commanded. Draco took another step, but she fired off a spell to stop him. The witch shook her head, her short cropped blond hair reflecting what little moonlight got through the canopy. Draco, shoulders slouched, pointed to a spot a few feet ahead of him.

"Buried at that tree trunk. Look. _Please_. We can share the port key. If we both escape, we can split up, and you have a better chance," Draco's voice took on a pleading tone, an edge of desperation, but the witch's smile kept growing as she slid past Draco, safely out his reach. She continued towards the tree, keeping a careful eye on Draco.

"Please," Draco said as the triffid's vine snatched the witch off the ground.

Draco dove down, dodging the wild spells she fired. The screams intensified and Draco scrambled behind cover and got out his own wand. Well, Letholdus' wand. There was a burst of flame, instantly illuminating the forest with a shockingly bright orange. She was trying to burn the triffid. Draco fired Expelliarmus at the vine, casting over and over again and the witch's frustrated scream let him know he'd scored. A moment later, the sound of rending flesh made Draco's shoulder ache and the screaming continued. The orange glow brightened.

Draco didn't want to look, but he watched. The wet sounds drowned out the rest of the forest. Draco steadied his wand _Accio pouch!_ and his money flew over into his hand. The witch had stopped fighting, and was slowly disappearing into the Triffid's grotesque maw. Draco almost took her wand, then realized that would be a mistake. He didn't need it anyway. Draco walked away from the triffid at a brisk pace, but he heard more twigs snapping and two voices talking.

 _Aurors._ They'd followed the witch or heard the screams. _Or seen the fire, obviously._ They were flying towards him.

Draco scanned about. He'd used his last advantage dealing with the witch. Even if it was just a single auror, he couldn't very well feed him to the Triffid. ("Once a triffid has eaten, it's safe to walk right up next it for up as long as two days or so," Professor Lockhart had explained to the class, after Draco's near death. Draco probably could have picked up the pouch off the ground, but he hadn't felt like performing that experiment).

"I couldn't finish it, Headmaster." He said, quietly to himself. "Not by myself. Hopefully I've done enough." He took the wand and pointed it at himself. He couldn't afford to be taken alive. They'd read his mind. Ideally he'd feed himself to a Triffid to destroy the evidence but perhaps if he found a small hiding spot... _I think, at this moment, I hate myself enough to do this._

Draco hadn't given up, but fatigue engulfed him. He couldn't think clearly. Instead of focusing on the problem at hand he instinctively thought about the conversation with Dumbledore that had set his plan in motion, how the Headmaster had told him of the prophecy that Harry Potter would destroy the world, and given Draco the burden of saving the world. Draco turned and started moving away from the incoming sound, but they were in brooms and Draco dare not cast Lumos. It would be a long trek, at night, through the Forbidden Forest. But he had nothing to lose, and he started walking as fast as he dared.

 _I still have allies here,_ Dumbledore had said, _and help is always available at Hogwarts to those who ask._

"Please, I need help," Draco whispered.

And disappeared in flash of fire.

"I saw a flash," said Auror Edebus, wand out, as the two brooms came crashing through the brush.

Auror Phaethon looked carefully around. "Yeah, it's called a fire. Probably just some rotting log catching. ... oh. Man." He dismounted slowly and cautiously and moved towards the flailing vines engulfed in flames. He peered into the fire, and heard quiet squishing noises underneath the crackling flames. "Looks like we found our straggler. Stumbled onto a Triffid."

"Saves us the trouble," said Edebus, starting to extinguish the fire.

* * *

Draco Malfoy appeared inside the edge of the forest in a flash of fire, as though he'd been burning in two places at once. Fawkes scream of victory echoed inside his head, for a moment, and then there was another flash and the Phoenix was gone. Draco blinked a few times as the sudden darkness left him blind.

"Fawkes?" Draco asked. But there was no light at all, except the gentle moonlight.

"Thank you, Headmaster." The plan could go on. Draco couldn't very well kill Harry Potter, the Headmaster had told him that. Not that Draco would want to. But now he could disappear and spend the years gathering the resources he'd need to quietly oppose Harry. Not without fear, but with some semblance of order. By then maybe he'd have a better plan to slow down the inevitable.

Draco couldn't save the world forever, but he could prolong it for years. Indefinitely, perhaps.

 _Delay is the strongest form of denial, after all.  
_

Eyes adjusted, Draco looked out of the forest. He was at the rendezvous, at the edge of the forest by the lake, well away from the castle. Draco wanted to go peer down into the lake and take a good look at his reflection, but that was folly and vanity. In any case, that could wait. Draco looked around. It was just a few dozen steps to the edge of the grounds. He quickly cast a few spells of concealment and _Quietus_ , took a few deep breaths, and ran across the small clearing until he was off the Hogwarts ground, confident that the wards would not raise the alarm at his passage. And they did not.

No longer rushed, Draco Malfoy turned and took one last look at Hogwarts, gently holding the delicate spherical flask in his hands, feeling the smooth glass. He placed it inside his pocket.

 _We did it. We actually did it._ He savored the moment, letting satisfaction wash over him. He'd have years for remorse and regrets later. Possibly even decades to contemplate all that he'd given up and lost. _Just this once, I get to win._ There were broomsticks moving throughout the air, apparently the battle had ended. Draco's eyes lingered on the main gate, then settled on the castle of Hogwarts School of Magic.

Tomorrow he'd decide where to settle. Randomly. Even Harry Potter couldn't predict randomness.

"Neville of Chaos, Scion of House Longbottom," Draco whispered to nobody, "Goodbye." Only Hogwarts heard his voice and the tinkling cracks when Draco crushed the flask through the cloth, triggering the portkey that whisked him out of Scotland.


	59. Testament

For the second time in his life Harry sat in the Malfoy vault in Gringotts. This time nobody made him wait.

There had been rigorous security, of course. He'd been wanded, probed and studied, but allowed to keep his wand and pouch. Mad-Eye Moody had made it clear: under no condition would Harry Potter be left defenceless after two ambushes in as many weeks. He'd demanded that each party be allowed wands and personal guards.

Narcissa Malfoy had accepted graciously, Gringotts had not. Several increasingly heated letters OWLed back and forth.

Gringotts stated that Harry Potter was in no way exempt from typical bank security. While Gringotts (both the company and all individual employees) _absolutely_ believed that Mr. Potter did not intend to steal anything from this (or any other vault) and took no position on the general ... _unpleasantness_ currently being debated. That being said, Gringotts had a fiduciary responsibility to all their customers that mattered more than their (obvious!) sympathies towards Harry Potter. Why, if even mighty Peverell Hospital could be broken into, Gringotts would take no chances.

Politely, and with much legalese, Harry's request for personal security was denied.

At which point the magical government of Britain intervened, again requesting a one time waiver due to extenuating circumstances.

Gringotts initially responded with an outright rejection, then a letter examining in some detail just how much a waiver would cost. An hour latter, a letter marked with the Seal of the Chief Mugwump calmly suggested that if Gringotts did not feel comfortable hosting a meeting between two second year students and Narcissa Malfoy and that the security requirements of said meeting were beyond their ability to handle then Gringotts should simply publicly declare that fact, at which point of course other arrangements could be made.

After sending _that_ letter (having stolen a supply of scrolls and an extra seal of the Chief Mugwump months ago), Harry fully expected a long missive stating something along the lines of 'we feel it is a gross mischaracterisation to refer to the Hermione Granger (aka The-Girl-Who-Revived) and Harry Potter (aka The-Boy-Who-Lived-And-Is-Also-Possibly-Voldemort) as _two second year students_ and said forementioned gross mischaracterization understated the real threats involved. More litigious parties than Gringotts may consider that as a borderline libelous statement,' at which point the letter would continue with a ridiculously long list of counter-demands.

Gringott's actual response simply enumerated convenient times and a request for the typical 27 hours advance notice for the meeting, along with the standard boilerplate detailing in-vault guards.

Harry, feeling mildly insulted that Gringotts accepted (his own) characterization of himself as a mere _second year student_ , briefly toyed with the idea of never using ironic self-effacement again.

And so it came to pass that Harry Potter walked into the Malfoy family vault to face Narcissa Malfoy ten days after her son's funeral. To Harry's surprise, Narcissa didn't appear active in the political drive opposing him. She'd confirmed the relevant facts when interviewed by the _Daily Prophet._ The only interview she'd given portrayed her as an outraged mother who'd just lost a child, nothing more. Narcissa hadn't attended the Wizengamot during the lengthy debates and votes for sanction, although she'd left instructions to vote for Gilderoy Lockhart's pardon.

Even if Harry wanted to, he dare not keep her under surveillance because somebody would notice (or perhaps an Auror would even leak the information) and he'd look even worse. But Narcissa Malfoy stayed well out of the public spotlight. By all accounts, she was too good an _Occlumens_ for Harry to know if she was just playing the role of a grieving mother. But even if she secretly rejoiced in Draco's death (which Harry sincerely doubted) Narcissa had simply withdrawn from public society, as far as anyone could tell.

His contacts at the _Prophet_ indicated she had not interfered in day-to-day operations the entire time she'd been back. Still, nobody could ever pin that on Lucius, back in the day. Not that direct interference had been necessary. In a situation like this you didn't need a cackling boss dictating the news. There would always be enough people (at all levels) who would consider it generally advantageous for their career to print news that helps the owner. So if the reporters merely imagined that's what Narcissa would want - to have Draco not die in vain - that was enough. The _Prophet_ had printed stories about Harry's connection to Voldemort every day for the last week and a half. It boosted circulation.

Amelia Bones spent her days fighting Harry's political war. Harry understood people in abstract, but he had no special advantage in politics. Horace Slughorn had been investigating Hogwarts since his return just as a matter of routine intrigue. To cement his position. Once he'd sniffed that Harry was Tom Riddle he'd focused intently. Slughorn hadn't found anything solid (apart from the Maurader's Map that Draco provided) but he'd gotten enough circumstantial evidence to indicate that Harry sat behind the scenes, masterminding.

The _Prophet_ parcelled these facts out, a steady stream of curious coincidences and "damning" evidence. Harry understood how people thought, and how mobs worked, but only at a theoretical level. Newspapers lived and died on this, and the country was dividing.

Every day he read the paper, as an internal debate raged.

 _If I were an uninterested 3rd party (but just as smart), I'd recognize the signs of a hatchet job and all the sloppy logic._ said Ravenclaw.

 _But you'd still note the information,_ said Hufflepuff. _Even if you discounted it you'd have to nudge up the probability that something strange was going on. Harry Potter may not be Dark Wizard level, but still, best to keep an eye on him. Some disturbing facts here._

Harry had some ideas how the Prophet placed him in the same room as Amelia Bones over winter break. And while they didn't have absolute proof, they'd gotten it right on at least that occasion.

 _And at some point, you'd decide to investigate this Harry Potter yourself,_ said Gryffindor.

None of his voices said "I'd prove his innocence." If Harry could do that, he wouldn't be in this mess with Draco in the first place.

One lone voice said, _I'd prove Harry Potter wasn't a monster._

At which point Slytherin chimed in, _Assuming you didn't fall for the one subtle (and hard to disprove) lie the Prophet slipped in._

Harry had been watching for the subtle lie. So far it hadn't appeared.

Still reviewing the latest _Daily Prophet_ , Harry was escorted into the vault with Narcissa and the Malfoy family solicitor for the last two decades, a Mr. Erasmus Farnsworth, Esq. As Harry folded up his paper, he reflected that he'd never seen a Wizard Lawyer (Amelie handled that). Harry recognized the traditional lengthy waxed black moustache, honed to a pair of fine points. The entire effect would inspire feelings of inadequacy in Snidely Whiplash, but it looked no less ridiculous than those terrible wigs that Muggle judges wore, in Harry's opinion. Farnsworth sported a pair of minuscule round eyeglasses, attached to his hat via a small black rope. Narcissa still wore mourning robes and a veil. She sat on the other side of the table, while Mr. Erasmus Farnsworth nodded solemnly and offered the seats to Hermione, then Harry.

By agreement, there were only four seats at the table. Mad-Eye Moody stood back with the guards. Harry couldn't be sure, but it looked like there was significantly less gold than when he'd been here with Lucius and Draco. House Malfoy remained wealthy, but Draco had spent a lot of his assets over the last year. As his eyes scanned the room, a thought popped into Harry's head. _Check if Draco moved a bunch of cash around in the last few months to use after he died. House Malfoy may not be familiar with forensic accounting. They probably are, but you never know._

The lawyer took out a scroll and started to read in a solemn voice. "Lady Malfoy, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, I have asked you here as per the wishes of the deceased for the reading of the will of Draco Malfoy."

"How can that be?" said Harry, shoving down any embarrassment he felt. Hermione kicked him under the table. _As far as anyone else was concerned, Draco was most certainly dead._ "I mean, Draco had not attained the age of majority. Is this will binding?"

Mr. Erasmus Farnsworth, Esq, pulled off his glasses and they dangled from the rope, while he stared at Harry. His voice was lighter, with more velocity than before. "Technically, this will can be contested by any party directly related to the Testator, named in the will, or named in any prior will or revoked codicil. As Draco had filed no prior relevant legal documents, all parties who could contest the will are located here. If there is a desire to contest we can proceed with negotiation or non-binding arbitration, and should no agreement..."

"I understand," said Harry. The lawyer reeled his glasses back up and perched them on his nose, glancing to all parties to make sure there were no questions. Then he continued in his solemn, slow voice.

 _"I Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius, son of Abraxis Lords of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, son also of Narcissa daughter of Druella Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, scion and heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, declaring that I am of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this my last will and testament."_

As the reading paused, Harry marveled at how the lawyer could say all of that in a single breath, and still sound somewhat elegant.

 _"I do hereby bequeath the Sigil Cane of House Malfoy to Lord Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres of House Potter, so that its presence should not disturb the Lady Narcissa Malfoy with sad memories, on the condition that he acknowledges that he retains it only in stewardship until such time as Narcissa Malfoy produces another child of any name, and that afterwards it will be the property of said child, with his or her parents as regent."_

Harry had questions, but he didn't interrupt. Narcissa let out a plaintive sob at the mention of another child.

 _"If Mr. Potter does not agree to the request, the Sigil cane shall be disposed of following the standard set by the Last Will and Testament of Lucius Malfoy as if I had preceded him in death."_

 _"I bequeath the Diary of Draco Malfoy to Lady Hermione Granger of House Granger in the hopes that she heeds its advice."_

 _"I have arranged for correspondence to be delivered to appropriate parties, as per my instructions."_

 _"All remaining possessions I do leave to Lady Narcissa Malfoy of House Malfoy. Should she precede me in death, I leave everything to Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres or his designated heirs, to use as best he sees fit to enhance the goal of saving the world."_

The solicitor took of his glasses and rubbed his nose. "Signed by Draco Malfoy on December 22nd, witnessed by Griphook of Gringotts bank, sealed with Gringotts seal," he displayed the scroll for inspection. "Are there any objections to the will as I have just read?"

Narcissa shook her head, still crying. Hermione's head moved imperceptibly, while Harry simply said no. _The cane might be trapped, but I can let Mad Eye inspect it and just shove it away if it's dangerous.  
_

"In that case," the solicitor said, "your correspondence and items." He placed Draco's cane on the table in front of Harry. It was swaddled in a black velvet cloth, and Mr. Farnsworth briefly opened the top, revealing the silver Krait handle, then closed it. On top of the cane he gently set down a sealed letter with the words "Harry Potter" in Draco's elegant handwriting.

The lawyer moved smoothly over and placed a small black book in front of Hermione. Harry recognized it as Draco's notebook he'd used for most of the year. _I thought it was just a list of notes, not a diary,_ he thought. _And we'll need to inspect it as well._

In front of Narcissa, the lawyer placed a letter.

Harry broke the seal and started to read.

 _To my friend Harry Potter,_

 _I write you this letter on Winter Break inside Malfoy Vault, safe from any scrying. Here it will stay, hopefully never to be read, because I have left my solicitor instructions to deliver this letter (and burn all others to you unopened) if I die betraying you._

 _This is my final plot: If you are Voldemort - or should I say, Tom Riddle - I earn some measure of respect for recognizing you and using all tools in my power to oppose you. Though I failed, at least I failed trying my utmost._

 _And if you are not...may you understand and gain some measure of wisdom to aid you in the future._

 _I wish I could have believed you. Or believed in you. My life would've been better._

 _I know I may be wrong. I hope I am wrong, that I'll soon return to Gringott's and rip this letter up, or perhaps show you some day when we are older. But if you are reading this ... this is not an apology, though I believe you will understand._

 _Know that I believe you meant well and that I don't believe you are the exact same monster who killed Father. I know you couldn't save him. This is not about him, except for the fear that haunted me all fall term – repeating his mistake of backing a Dark Wizard. It haunts me, the knowledge that I could be wrong, either way. But I think that if I don't act, don't try to resolve this impossible problem, it will haunt me even more._

 _I am not yet committed, when I write this. I am setting plans in motion – using every resource at my disposal. But I lack information I sorely need. My plots remain flexible, I am ready to pivot them to assisting you and Hermione, an ambition worthy of my family's name._

 _But if you are reading this, I have failed. Hopefully I am wrong, so in this letter I do my utmost to help you, as I should have done from the beginning._

 _I have little to offer. My Diary is now merely a book. It will offer advice only to a true Malfoy in name and blood, and I have no heir. The Sigil Cane of my Father will be of some use, though its power is keyed to my family as well. I doubt it will answer your summons, thought I have not tested that experimentally. What I can offer is advice._

 _All strengths have a corresponding weakness. You saw how I deployed honesty as a weapon. Know that I desperately wished you were not an Occlumens, that you could swear under one drop of Veritaserum that I was wrong. I almost did trust Hermione, despite her training. I do not think deception becomes her, and no magic can hide her inherent goodness. She is the best of us._

 _I doubt even you could corrupt her but I know you could deceive her, if necessary. We know that is your true power, if not your true nature._

 _Your skills as a thinker blinds you to people, normal people. I was not your equal in thinking, but this let me see them more clearly. I wish I could have convinced myself to act as your minion, to smooth your politics and ease your way. Gregory and Vincent can help you. I believe they will want to, and I will arrange my plots to ensure that they have no meaningful foreknowledge. They have never plotted against you. In my correspondence to them, I've asked them to answer any questions you may have. I expect there will be a full investigation in any case._

 _Your strength makes you arrogant. You must temper that._

 _If you are innocent, examine my mistakes and teach others how to avoid them._

 _And treasure family. One day you will have a family of your own. I imagine your children will teach you wisdom, Harry. I know that once I understood Father's mistakes - and the motives behind them - that is when I felt perhaps I could become wise._

 _Your friend,_

 _Draco Malfoy_

Harry stared at the letter. Part of him wanted it to be a plot, to have some deeper subtlety beyond the plain confession of the words. A part of Harry thought _I could have avoided this. H_ is heart pounded with guilt and shame. He looked over at Hermione and she'd was still just sitting there, the diary untouched. Narcissa cried as she read her letter, but a wry smile was on her face as tears slid down her cheek. Harry started to re-read his letter, but as he did so Hermione reached out and pulled the diary across the table and opened it quickly. Harry could see over her shoulder that all the pages were blank, which made no sense. He'd seen Draco write in this almost every day. _Well, every day I saw Draco_.

Hermione slowly flipped through the pages, bewildered, then started to close the diary. Right before the diary shut she let out a small gasp and re-opened it to the front page. What had been blank now showed a small sketch of an urn. No, a vase. Slowly the sketch added shading and a design. The pencil drew in two flowers that Harry couldn't identify. The lack of colours made it difficult, perhaps they were roses. Brisk, clean lines filled out the sketch with details and suddenly the motion stopped, the sketch complete.

And then in Draco's elegant cursive, the signature _D.M._ and, underneath the words appeared

 ** _Save Them All_**

Hermione wept as Narcissa and Harry tried to console her.

A minute later, Alastor Moody - having quietly moved closer during the proceedings - reached over the table, snatched Draco's Diary, and toss it into a sack.

"That was left to me," Hermione protested, wiping away tears. Alastor cut her off.

"Could be a trap," Mad-Eye said, adding the Sigil to the sack. "Never trust anything."

Harry waited for the end of the sentence and then realized that Mad-Eye Moody did not intend to add any qualifiers. Nothing reasonable like, _Never trust a gift from someone who has plotted against you,_ or _Never trust a Malfoy_ or _Never trust a gift from someone who clearly intends to oppose you_ or even somewhat reasonable advice like _Never trust anything that was disguised under your nose for a year and may be more than it seems._

No, _never trust anything_. Full stop. It probably sounded better in Latin.

Harry looked over at Hermione - who looked disturbingly angry - and at Narcissa Malfoy, who did not seem offended at all.

"Lady Malfoy. You don't mind the implication?"

"Lucius never touched a gift unless it was thoroughly inspected, or he trusted the giver implicitly, or knew the full provenance, or felt the giver was a 'milquetoast incapable of anything truly dangerous.' Draco plotted against you. Which exception should apply?" She shook her head as she said it. "No offence was intended. It's like the gift of the wine. Your watchdog's job is to protect you; he would have done the same that had been left to you by Dumbledore himself."

Alastor grumbled about intended offense under his breath, but if Narcissa Malfoy could hear it she gave no response. Mr. Farnsworth had said nothing during this time, but simply stared at his watch, like the entire conversation was just another billable hour. In fact, now that Harry thought about it, Draco's lawyer had been studying the time quite intently ever since delivering their correspondence.

"So, they aren't dangerous?" Hermione asked.

"I won't speak to the Sigil, that's was Lucius and he asked me never to handle it. But the Diary? That's simply the received wisdom of House Malfoy passed down from generation to generation. Lucius and I had no qualms giving it to Draco. In any case, I think if it posed a danger it would have been given to him," at this Narcissa nodded towards Harry, "instead of you."

Harry listened to Narcissa's words, but during her speech her lawyer had stopped staring at his watch and reached into his satchel. Even if Harry hadn't noticed that, Alastor's abrupt shift of focus would have startled him, but the lawyer simply pulled out two small letters, one labeled "Harry Potter," and the other labeled "Gringotts." Mr. Erasmus Farnsworth, Esq, walked over to Harry and handed him the second letter, then glanced at his watch again.

"You ... you are under an Unbreakable Vow," Harry recognized the signs now, Draco's lawyer was too punctual. Of course it made sense that the best lawyers, the most expensive ones would be bound not by something so weak as the threat of disbarment or other legal sanctions. The best lawyers would be bound to follow their client's instructions that didn't violate any laws. So long as they paid.

"We need to leave," Harry said, opening up the letter.

 _Harry,_

 _Our lawyers may be cute, but even they know how to argue grey areas of the law._

 _My letter to Gringotts will be delivered in ten minutes. I suggest you be someplace defensible by then._

"Guards, open the vault! We're leaving," Harry announced to the room, quickly standing up. The two goblins gave a small bow and then started the process of unsealing the door. "Lady Malfoy, my respects. But we're going back to Hogwarts. Mr. Farnsworth, I don't suppose you would be willing to advise us ..."

"I am bound not to take on any potential conflicts of interest for at least one year plus a day after the end of my service," he said, eyes still firmly on his watch.

"Of course, just checking," Harry waited impatiently for the guards to open the vault door, which took several seconds. Hermione had caught up to them by now, and even Mad Eye Moody seemed agitated as he glanced around the room.

"Harry, what's the matter," Hermione asked.

Harry glanced at the guards. They still wore their magical eyepieces and goggles. They couldn't have overheard him, not unless he addressed them specifically. "Draco's going to try and convince the goblins we transfigured money."

"They won't possibly believe him," Hermione said, but Mad Eye's single barked laugh ended the conversation as the vault door swung open.

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- Thanks again for my proofreader. Next chapter in one week.


	60. Moving Forward

"So, is Draco alive or dead?" Hermione asked, looking at Harry while doing her handstand. She'd switched into sweat pants instead of robes, like she always did when exercising and testing her limits. Hermione lifted her right hand off the ground and held it out to her side. She kept perfectly still.

Harry didn't even raise his head, resting face down on the desk. That's how he'd taken to thinking, the last few days.

"Does it matter, Hermione?"

He heard her flip back onto her feet and walk over. "Of course it matters. You're always telling everyone how much life matters. Draco betrayed us and got Neville killed, as well as those Aurors and even those evil wizards..."

Harry waved his hand over his head, conceding the point. "I meant from a practical standpoint, not ethically. Draco went well out of his way to create a situation where his death or life wouldn't matter to me, on a practical level. That was the point of his ridiculously complicated setup."

Harry turned his head to the side, so that he could look at Hermione and watch her as he spoke. Not to see her ridiculous exercise, but to see if she looked as annoyed as he felt. Harry sighed and continued.

"If Draco survived, I'd wonder if he actually died. If he didn't - so long as he got through at least part of his plan - I'd wonder if he was still alive. He tried to make it undecidable. As difficult as possible for me to tell. He's practically Schrödinger's cat, now. I don't know if he stumbled onto the plan in frustration for being unable to decide about me, or if it just appealed to his aesthetics."

Hermione frowned at that. "Draco learned the lessons you taught him. Maybe not as well as you'd like, but well enough. You put him in a situation where he had to make a terrible choice. Where only luck would save him, like with the Iran Air Simulation. I'd say he learned your lesson too well. So you do not get to pretend that Draco's plan was some unfortunate coincidence. I didn't know Draco had that in him and neither did you, but you knew his background. Lucius hired him the best tutors. He learned deception from his father. You tried to redeem Draco, we both tried. _You_ trained him. Don't just say 'Draco stumbled onto a plan' to salve your conscious."

Harry grimaced. _I'm not sure if she's trying to pick a fight, mad at me, or mad at Draco._ Harry thought about it some more and realized he wasn't sure who he was mad at, either. _Draco would probably know._ That stung a little.

"Right. Rule Ten. _One must not rant about the opposition's unworthiness after they have foiled you_."

"Who knows how much of the last year was a lie," Hermione said, stopping her jumping jacks in disgust. She still hadn't broken a sweat. "You haven't answered the question."

"Given the evidence we've seen, I thought it more likely than not that Draco survived. But that was before he left you his diary." Alastor Moody had examined the Diary for several days before giving it back. He didn't declare it safe - Alastor Moody never declared anything safe - but its return meant it wasn't obviously dangerous. Anything not obviously dangerous to Mad-Eye was effectively safe.

Hermione thought briefly. "Which matters because it would be useful to Draco."

Harry nodded, as much as possible still resting on the desk, while Hermione continued. "Draco couldn't ever use his cane again. That would reveal his identity and his cane's magic seems geared towards public displays. But a small tutor with secrets going back centuries would be incredibly useful. I can't even imagine how advanced I'd be if I'd had that for a few years. It's like having a full library, if what Narcissa says is true."

"Not even counting what ever else it knows, Hermione. Draco could have kept it. I might notice it missing, but I'd hardly consider it important. I didn't realize it was anything more than a never ending scroll. If Draco is still alive and left that behind, he voluntarily imposed a significant cost to help sell his death. That doesn't mean he's dead, but it makes it more likely."

"Another double bluff, perhaps," Hermione offered.

"Perhaps. But bluffs work _because_ you risk something tangible. It isn't just blustering, Draco took a cost by leaving that behind. If I hunt for Draco, he's at a bigger disadvantage without the diary. And if I don't hunt him, he's worse off in his day to day dealings. He's only better off IF leaving the diary behind changes my decision. If his bluff makes me fold."

"But you admitted that it does tip the balance for you," said Hermione.

Harry finally raised his head off the desk.

"I said it makes me lower my estimate of the fact 'Draco is alive,' from over fifty percent to under. But I'm not altering my strategy based on that. Consider this a poker game between me and Draco. I have to play a mixed strategy in any case - well, it's not really mixed because we're only doing this once, but the same idea applies. My best strategy requires some randomness in it. Just like in real poker, you can't bluff every time and you can't tell the truth every time. My best play is to decide a range of resources I'll spend to investigate, and then randomly pick something in that range. If this were a simple game I could prove the perfect strategy mathematically."

"Father says that poker is a game of bluffing and psychology," Hermione ventured.

"Well, if you play the right mixed strategy nobody can do better than chance against you, assuming they can't literally read your mind. Even if Draco meant to play poker, I'm not getting into a psychological game with him, he has a comparative advantage there. I'm playing strictly according to the maths and randomizing my effort. I do have to try and figure this out, short term. Being able to prove this would be a huge boost. I've got to develop a reputation for punishing my attackers, but in a noble way that makes me seem like a better leader. So I've got to investigate. But I've got other things to do, too."

Harry got up and stretched as he spoke, finally getting into the mood for a conversation.

"Time I spend chasing Draco eats away at my other efforts. That's my cost. If Draco's dead, well, he's already paid the price. Alive, he's spending most of his effort staying hidden. But if Draco messes up _just once_ , I'll know he's alive. He's clever, but this isn't like Peverell where he can spend months planning out one day and several years living expenses to craft the right tools. This isn't an ambush. Draco gets one day to plan for every day he's out there. No days off. He has to get money to live. Every day I don't find him, I lower my probability of Draco being alive ever so slightly. Eventually, it won't be worth my effort. And emotionally..."

"It will just be easier to consider him dead," Hermione finished.

"Yes. I mean, intellectually I'll always know its a possibility..." Harry trailed off and scratched the back of his neck. "At least I have some idea why Draco did it. Maybe."

"Dumbledore? I'm not sure I'd believe that. Not everything can be about you, Harry. Even if Professor Lockhart believes its true, he could just be wrong."

"Perhaps. Maybe I'm just hoping this because in that case Draco hasn't really gone evil. I just wish I knew Dumbledore's motive. I get all of last year, he had to keep so many things in the air, and I ended up with the Vow to help me. I get that, but of course at the time it seemed terrible."

The Unbreakable Vow still restricted Harry somewhat, but he had gotten used to it. _People get used to anything, even people who'd been in terrible accidents and paralyzed or blinded,_ Harry thought automatically. _As disabilities go, not being able to destroy the world isn't so bad._

"I don't see why you are worried. If Dumbledore is behind it, you'll understand after it's over, just like you did last year."

"I just don't see why he couldn't tell me," Harry said.

"Maybe Lockhart messed up. Maybe _Draco_ got it wrong. Dumbledore could fine tune his plan when he's around. It sounds like he nudged Professor Lockhart once, and maybe dropped some information into Draco's lap. He's limited. Maybe Draco mis-interpreted it."

"Possibly. Reasoning from limited information isn't perfect. But he went after the Hall of Prophecy. Maybe he found something."

"Dumbledore probably did it to teach you humility," Hermione said firmly. "He knew that you'd never learn from a simple lecture, like a good student. You're too stubborn for that. But everything was going so smoothly, and now you've got a ton more problems. That's the only way you can teach Harry Potter."

Harry started to protest, but unfortunately Hermione's argument could not be lightly dismissed.

* * *

Harry waited outside of Gilderoy Lockhart's cell patiently, trying to ignore his entourage. The two Aurors were easy to ignore; outwardly they looked like they were just lounging around on break. Only their eyes betrayed them, casting around incessantly. Vincent and Gregory, on the other hand, were standing at attention, flanking him. The knowledge that their only purpose in a battle was to absorb any spell aimed at Harry made him uncomfortable, but he hadn't been able to dissuade them and didn't dare order them away. They felt it was their penance, perhaps. Harry didn't really understand that, but he acquiesced, for now. If nothing else they discreetly whispered names that Harry didn't know or - more likely - had forgotten. After a few minutes, the door opened and an elegantly robed witch exited. Harry's head snapped up, he hadn't known who Gilderoy's visitor was.

"Lady Malfoy," he said with a calmness he didn't feel.

"Lord Potter," she answered. "I apologize if I've kept you waiting. I did not know Gilderoy had other visitors. Vincent, Gregory," she added, with some warmth and a small smile.

Harry nodded at the apology, but didn't know what to say. Vincent's face looked torn, betraying waves of emotion that had rippled from the last few weeks events, but after a moment he just clinched his jaw and said "Lady Malfoy," and Gregory nodded slowly.

Harry simply stood aside as Narcissa Malfoy walked away, quietly, like a stalking lioness. He waited for a second then carefully rapped his knuckles on the cell door, before opening it without looking in.

"I can come back later, if now is not a good time," he said.

"Harry! Of course, of course, come in!" Even in jail, Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to be constantly smiling, in good spirits. _The vote to reduce his sentence to a mere month helped, no doubt_. "How are things going? No problems you can't handle, I wager."

Harry walked into the cell and closed the door behind him, thankfully free from his entourage. _Well, Professor, the goblins have conceded the point that creating gold is hardly the same as transfiguring money, so we're not in a state of war. But they've made complicated economic arguments that the practical effects of diluting a gold-based economy are similar enough that if I do it again they'll be forced to act. I've studied economics for several weeks, and as a practical matter I doubt I'll be able to just create wealth as easily as I did before, although it's not a long term impediment, and I can use the money from Slughorn's blood debt until I fix it. Half of the country fears me, but some of that is just tabloid interest, and the political situation is still tangled up and Amelia Bones has taken a large hit, some of which to protect me but I don't know the best course..._

Harry just shrugged. "Right, nothing I can't handle."

"So, what brings you to my confines, Mr. Potter?" Gilderoy's cell sported even more luxuries than before. Gilderoy didn't have a wand, but with the food, drink and comforts around him he didn't appear to want for much.

"I was wondering what you planned to do after your release," Gilderoy's face fell into a frown and his eyes glanced towards the door and Harry quickly appended, "Professionally speaking, that is."

"Ah! I. Well, I hadn't decided, honestly. I'd considered going back to South America," he said.

"Re-joining Geralt?" Harry asked, but Lockhart shook his head.

"I think I've learned all I care to from that man, no. I'm sure I could learn more, but there must be more pleasant ways to do so. My apprenticeship had already garnered me some notoriety, but I think I've got enough to break free. As long as I steer clear of him, I suppose."

"And you hadn't considered staying?" Harry asked, single eyebrow arched.

"Well, of course I've considered it. But London isn't as interesting."

"Not London, Scotland. Hogwarts." Harry sat down in the visitor's chair. For once Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to be struck speechless. "You taught well, and despite your incarceration the Board of Governors considers your actions ... well, excesses committed in the defence of the students isn't frowned upon. You'd be the first Defence Professor to serve two consecutive years in quite some time. Might make you a bit more notorious."

Gilderoy nodded absent-mindedly. "Technically I'm the first Offence Professor but, yes, I see your point. And you don't have a problem with me?"

"The real question is, Professor, do you have a problem with me?"

"You've always struck me as off, Mr. Potter. I'd heard the stories ... who hasn't heard the stories of the Boy-Who-Lived? But I heard the stories from your first year. And they were stories ... and yet. And yet you dodged my ambush in the first lecture. Draco," at this Professor Lockhart's voice faded for a moment, "Draco reacted, but you anticipated. And that's when I began to suspect that all the stories were true, even the contradictory ones. Not that I did much about it, I suppose. No, I have absolutely no problem believing you are somehow Voldemort's shade. But I also have no problem with you. I've worked with dangerous people, and I've worked with evil people."

"You aren't worried I'm fooling you, a clever lie ready to trap you?"

Professor Lockhart shrugged, "Eh, you wouldn't be the first. Besides, I can't afford to spend all of my time living in fear of what may happen. Isaac always said that was your problem. Too much thinking."

"Professor Asimov said that about me?"

"Well, not in those exact words, no," Professor Lockhart said, and suddenly the smile fell from his face. "What can I possibly teach the students next year?"


	61. Beginnings

_August 1st, 1993_

Duarte let out a slow approving whistle as he stared at the nearly two meter tall brute, height made more impressive by the lack of hair to aid it. His bald head reflected most of the shaft of the afternoon light streaking in through the bar window. The man was dressed in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, and kept his eyes locked on Duarte. The man's physique looked natural, not like one of those American movie stars who spent hours in the gym.

Duarte nodded. "Yes, the boss will like you. A bruiser everyone can fear without shame. Very intimidating. What's your name?"

The man stared at him, gaze hard, for several seconds before finally saying, "Alexio."

Duarte raised an eyebrow and slid his gaze back to Tomas. "Well, Alexio, I need to confer with friend here," and he stepped over to the other side of the bar.

"Where did you find this one, Tomas? Is he trying to pull some tough guy routine on us? Not that he doesn't look it, but does he know who we are?" Duarte nodded over to the bartender who poured out a shot of bourbon - the good stuff - and took a drink. "Or is he on drugs, and has to work off a debt?

"No drugs, just an idiot. He's slow to answer, barely says anything, but if you put him in a scrape he's fine. Not a great fighter, but does he have to be? We can do the talking, he can tag along and look scary..."

Draco had christened himself Alexio, and refused to think of himself by any other name. Until he learned Occlumency, it was too dangerous. Alexio watched Tomas talk conspiratorially with the new man, the shorter one who hadn't mentioned his name. Tomas was more of a middle man, but the short one worried Draco. He looked dangerous, like he'd had to compensate for his size to demonstrate his value. _He'd probably even been boasting about how the big ones are usually not so tough,_ but Alexio hadn't understood much. Even the simple question, one on the first page of any language book, had taken him precious seconds to work out. It wasn't like a classroom or tutoring - everyone spoke fast.

Tomas and the short man had moved over to the other side of the bar to conspire about him. Hopefully they hadn't realized how little he grasped. But this was easier, now he didn't have to focus on the words. Alexio could read the obvious greed in their faces. They'd dump their work on him and pay him too little. Alexio walked a dangerous path, but not in the sense that he'd be in much physical danger. Even a typical second year could deal with muggles, if they put their mind to it, and Alexio was in no way typical. He'd been practising a few wandless stunning hexes, typically targeting obnoxious passersby late at night. They shouldn't have worked, but they did. Perhaps his earlier tutoring paid off, or perhaps it was the physical age of the body. It was an interesting theoretical question, but he didn't have time to experiment.

Navigating the muggle world had dangers, and so he'd tested his skills, but he hoped to mostly hide them for the next year and practice alone, at his hideout. Casting spells in public risked alerting the local aurors while he clearly would be pegged as an outsider. Hiding had the less obvious (but much more important) risk - Harry would be actively consolidating power while Alexio waited in safety. No, Alexio knew he needed to start now. Because at some point, he would have enough power to be a threat to Harry Potter, and Alexio needed to make absolutely sure that his backstory did not simply start in 1993, with him as a newcomer who didn't speak the language. He needed to be someone who always spoke eloquently, but had chosen not to. Someone that had stories about him that easily predated his arrival.

Luckily Alexio had Vincent's example as a prototype. Be big, act stupid, speak only when absolutely necessary. Never break eye contact first, no matter how much you were afraid. Knowing he didn't need a wand in his hand helped calm his nerves. Alexio glanced over at the two, who were laughing now. They had made their decision. He turned his gaze to the television. The announcers still spoke too quickly (except for the news announcers) but they tended to have clear diction and usually never said anything complicated.

Tomas saw Alexio, sitting on the other side of the bar and watching them impassively for a few seconds before his eyes flickered over to the television and started watching the random trash it played. He and Duarte walked back over to Alexio, and Duarte slapped the big man on the back.

"Well, Alexio, it appears we will be working together. The only thing you should know is, I prefer redheads. So no making moves on any of them. Got it?" Duarte said.

Alexio just let out an amused snort, shrugging his shoulders. Tomas laughed.

* * *

"And how are you feeling tonight, little one?" Afonso Farias asked as he gently kissed his daughter's forehead. He could feel the slight fever in his lips, still there, but much reduced from the summer, when things had looked bleak. The doctors couldn't explain it, one had simply said it was a miracle but the others just quietly admitted that there was still a lot to learn about human physiology, and the body had defenses they didn't understand.

"I feel good, Father," Ana said. "Nanny read to me after lunch. We had soup for lunch," she added.

"That's good," Afonso added. He'd of course gotten a detailed update from Ana's nanny when he'd arrived home, and he knew that his daughter still slept about half the day. Her strength was returning slowly, but it was better than the alternative. It was barely sunset, and already her eyelids were drooping. "Perhaps you should get some sleep, my sweet," he said.

"You also, Father. You look very tired," she said, but her voice was already fading. Afonso nodded. He'd felt tired for the last year, strained by the experience of caring for his late wife and his recovering daughter. He watched her fall into a peaceful slumber for a few minutes, then went into the kitchen and prepared a small dinner and ate in front of the television, watching Baovista's latest match. They'd just been promoted to the second division, so they were getting thrashed. The score was still nil-nil, but it was only a matter of time. Afonso sighed as he cleaned up the dishes. No point in watching, he was tired. A small noise startled him and he turned to see a large looming figure in the kitchen point a stick and say a word. Afonso froze, muscles locked, and crashed into the floor. The man - nearly two meters tall and with curly black hair and a hardened jaw, looked unkempt, like he hadn't shaved in days, but he easily picked up Afonso and through him over his shoulder, saying nothing.

Afonso panicked, unable to move. _Why am I frozen? And what did the man say? It wasn't Portuguese, it sounded vaguely like English. Or corrupted Latin, perhaps._ Playing the scene back in his mind, Afonso was startled to see he was being carried up the attic ladder and started to whisper a prayer.

As he finished, the figured deposited him into a comfortable leather chair. The attic wasn't like he'd left it, full of boxes. The clutter had been replaced by a reasonable (if spartan) set of furniture. Afonso's eye's glanced around and saw a desk, bookshelf, chair, and a small mattress on the floor. The figure walked over to the small television placed in the center of his view and turned it on, pushing a VCR tape into the machine. He then simply went back down the ladder.

The tv screen flickered for a moment, and then Afonso saw ... himself.

"Do not be afraid, little conqueror," he said. Little conqueror was a nickname Afonso's father had bestowed on him when he was eight. "The man who did this to you is our guest. He is a warlock, or some such. He asked us for help with learning the language and the city, and to hide him. In exchange, he is helping Ana. He cannot cure her, that is beyond his power, but you've seen he does have power. But he is helping. And he has promised that once he is fluent in Portuguese he will find someone who can cure her. Perhaps we should not believe him. But what can we do? A few hours of lessons most nights, and then we forget about him. Perhaps in a year, he will be gone. It is a fair deal."

While listening with growing confusion, Afonso could hear the man downstairs, making a plate of food for himself. By the time the tape ended, the heavy footsteps climbed back up the ladder. The man set down a rather large sandwich on his writing desk and then took out his wand and said a few words. Prepared this time, Afonso recognized the words. _Finite Incantatem._

 _"_ Good evening, Professor Farias, and my apologies," the man said. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if following the carpenter's adage to measure twice and cut only once. When he finished speaking he set down his wand and picked up the sandwich, then took a bite. Afonso stood up slowly and cautiously. He started to say something, then paused. The man - the warlock, Afonso had said on the tape - stopped chewing and swallowed.

"I know what you are thinking. About the police," the man said, then took another bite, then picked up a sheet of paper and walked over and deposited it on the tray table besides the leather chair. Afonso picked it up. The handwriting's elegance didn't hide the clumsiness of the language, but clearly the man had a much better grasp of written Portuguese than spoken. Or perhaps just had more time to compose his thoughts.

 _Apart from the fact that you trust your words on the television, I am helping your daughter's recovery. Private tutoring is a small price to pay for that, even if it must be clumsy because you do not remember each session. And since you always ask each night, removing your memories is as much for your safety as mine, as I have powerful enemies who are hunting for me. And you know the police would laugh at you, or much worse.  
_

 _As for my name, we've generally gone with Orpheus. Please critique the writing on this letter while I finish eating. Also, can you tell where I am from?_

"You are English, Orpheus," Afonso said, voice steadying after a few words.

"How do you know?" asked Orpheus, before taking another bite.

"Your accent is good, but your sentence construction betrays you. And in any case, no native would consider going to the police a serious threat. At least, not from someone who wasn't wealthy." Afonso spoke slowly, but Orpheus repeated the sentence back, emphasizing a few words, which Afonso translated into English. It took several repetitions, but Orpheus grasped it. _He is, actually, a surprisingly attentive student._

Orpheus nodded at the sentence, one he grasped its meaning, and chuckled at the last part before swallowing the last of the sandwich.

Afonso looked up. "That is it, isn't it? You will consider yourself fluent when I cannot guess your accent?" While Orpheus struggled with that sentence, particularly with the word _fluent_ , Afonso walked over to the bookshelf and read the titles. An entire row of books on elementary Portuguese, and some tourist guides for Brazil and also Portugal. More interesting were the scrolls and ancient looking tomes that could have been pulled from a movie or child's fairy tale. English books with bizarre yet somehow mundane sounding names, _Intermediate Transfigurations, Practical Divinations for Everyone, Runic Lore,_ and seven volumes of Miranda Grawshank's _Standard Book of Spells._ Names that implied that 'wizard' might simply be another trade, like professor, lawyer, mechanic or scientist. Beside the bookshelf a small cauldron bubbled quietly.

"Yes," Orpheus said. "You said another year to be fluent. Ana should be fine within a few months. I cannot cure her. Healing magics are not ... mine. I can brew palliative formulas."

"A surprisingly complex word, _palliative,_ " Afonso said.

"Which you taught me. Now, the letter? I've written more, Correct them for mistakes. Formal language for writing, common language for speaking. Correct anything I say. We have ninety minutes left, to work. Then we both sleep."

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- The final chapter will be posted on Christmas Eve.


	62. Thirty-Four Years Later, Part 2

Li Kao, personal secretary to Alexio Vasconcelos, stood in front of his boss's desk. A short, wiry man who wore asian robes, Ko placed a sealed file on the desk and cleared his throat. Alexio hadn't changed after the Council meeting and still wore the traditional robes with a formal serape draped over his shoulders and down his back instead of his typical ratty robes he wore in his private office. Alexio looked up at Kao, who pointed to the formal invitation pushed off to the side, where it had been sitting for nearly two weeks.

"You need to decide, and soon. They expect an answer," Kao said.

Alexio ignored it, scowling. He reached over to the new file instead and opened it.

"I'll decide tonight," Alexio said simply, and his secretary turned away, satisfied. The soft swish of silk announced Kao's departure while Alexio read slowly through the file. Routine requests. He thought briefly, then jotted several short memos in English and Portuguese and sealed them. As the door closed behind his secretary's disappearing form Alexio let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes. He allowed himself a moment of rest.

Alexio took out his wand and warded the envelopes. These weren't wards to protect his memos, there was nothing in _those_ memos of note. But it wouldn't do to let those spying on him know that. Alexio didn't have perfect security. Nothing ever was perfect. But between codes, wards, and obscurity it was the best he could do. He dropped the envelopes into the "out" basket, stood up, and looked out through the penthouse window over downtown Rio and Alexio Vasconcelos - secure in his private sanctum - took a moment to reflect.

Alexio stared out across the city. He never tired of looking down at it. Rio had transformed. The last five years had seen pollution drop dramatically as clean energy came online. Alexio's magic helped pay for the factories but it was pure technology, unlike most of his ventures. No doubt that was why Kao Li had sent his resume, looking for experience for a wizard who dealt with both worlds. Working with the powerful always appealed to any recent graduate, but surely Harry Potter had twisted Kao's ear, asked him to keep his eyes open. Still, Kao had worked out well. Having a diligent Englishman keep an eye on his more _relaxed_ employees kept them diligent and taught good habits, no matter how much they grumbled. It helped immensely.

As far as Kao knew, he'd worked (and occasionally spied on) a good but misguided Wizard to help his former Headmaster.

Alexio had moved slowly. Building an empire while deflecting attention took time.

Alexio's eyes glanced around the room, such a far cry from the attic he'd lived in during his first year while learning the language and using his rather monstrous physique to explore the city and society as a muggle bodyguard and thug. Strong and silent. That work let Alexio mingle among the elite, visible but in many ways unseen by them, overlooked as servants often are. After two years, finally confident he spoke well, Alexio opened his mouth to make introductions. Which lead to deals with many, and opened up doors to the halls of power.

Alexio walked those Halls smoothly, negotiating from some and simply taking what he required from the truly evil. The world did not miss them.

For years Alexio acquired power in the shadows, never overtly. It would not do to attract non-local attention. Not until all the pieces were in place.

The light of the moon let Alexio glimpse his reflection in the windows. His somewhat youthful looks had faded into middle age. At least no lines creased across his face, they were smoothed out by his extra weight and pulled taught by his jowls. He'd let himself go, no longer the hard enforcer. Alexio didn't spend any time out on the streets down below, and had never had a taste for exercise. He still kept his head shaved - when he'd been younger the baldness helped intimidate those who might be otherwise inclined to test him. Now he felt like letting his hair grow back would be interpreted by his enemies as a sign of weakness. But his body was weakening, although at a much slower rate than a muggle. Alexio had settled into middle age a decade ago, perhaps he should finally admit it. He'd already considered embracing a softer look to go with his rounder face.

Only here, only alone did he dare to contemplate on how far he'd come from the boy who'd been Draco Malfoy. Alexio removed a few of the barriers in his mind to converse with himself and closed his eyes.

Draco Malfoy opened them.

Draco didn't flinch at the reflection. He hadn't flinched after the first few times he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, but he still felt the body he inhabited didn't match his personality, although he'd built his persona around it. Perhaps one day he'd change back, once he'd saved the world. Draco hadn't dared keep a locket of his blond hair. No traces of his former life or his youth, back when he'd been thin and handsome. But wizards had gotten quite good at plastic surgery. One day, with magic, he could have his body changed. As long as nobody at Peverell inspected him too closely. For now, he didn't look handsome, merely ominous.

Ominous had suited Draco's purpose.

Draco looked at the invitation to the Convocation, where Harry planned to resolve the final negotiations to undo the Statute of Secrecy. Kao was obviously Harry's agent, but keeping him as a personal assistant built credibility. He'd passed along some damning secrets to Harry, but not the truly important one. Harry Potter would much more easily believe in some petty corruption and abuse, some questionable ethics. True innocence was always suspicious, to Draco and Harry.

Draco respected Li Kao, formerly of House Hufflepuff and son of the now famous auror. Draco admired his drive. Of course Kao had been one of Harry's obvious moles, but Draco ensured that he (and the others) were well fed and placated, happy in their discoveries. The others he ran in circles, chasing leads that invariably led to a juicy but ultimately irrelavant morsel. Kao was kept close.

Neither Alexio nor Draco felt inclined to waste the boy's talents merely because of his split allegiance.

Alexio Vasconcelos hadn't led the local opposition against Harry Potter. But he'd aided it in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. That's what Harry would expect from a wizard who had been building his fortune and power by working between the two worlds. Once magic was revealed, his competitors would understand how they'd been beat, and be able to take appropriate precautions. The first envoy from the Chief Mugwump of England had shown up fifteen years ago, when he was still a local power. Just a friendly visit, trying to negotiate support. Alexio remembered the poor lad's look as he ranted and raved, all emotion to the boy's logic. That boy had probably never met anyone fundamentally illogical since entering Hogwarts, and he ... _what was his name?_

Alexio had forgotten his name.

 _Humbolt,_ Draco whispered deep inside Alexio, _Horatio Humbolt._

 _Ah yes_ , Alexio whispered back.

Alexio sent Horatio Humbolt packing, angrily accosting him for daring to nit pick the actions of a great man.

The threats arrived two years later, snide insinuations that the investigations into his past had turned up the dark secrets he'd run away from Portugal to hide, and pointing out his frequent violations (or near-misses) of the Statute could be investigated more vigorously than the local government had done, but if he joined the movement for repeal... why, then he wouldn't have to break any more laws.

Alexio had allowed himself a brief smile, that day. But it had quickly faded as he realized that it could mean that the investigator believed it, or had merely wanted him to believe it. _The game is played on so many levels, it gets tiring sometimes, Father._ He'd filed the letter away and toned down his political maneuverings regarding the Statute, playing the part of a cowed businessman and minor Lord. Kao had been next, a bit too eager to be hired, not demanding his value, which he obviously knew.

Many times over the years Draco had tired of the game and secretly hoped that one day he'd be able to stroll into Peverell, confess and apologize. To be able to announce that he'd finally found some proof of Harry's innocence, that it was all just a mistake. For years he'd held out hope, until he finally confirmed that someone (no doubt Harry or acting on his behalf) had destroyed the Hall of Prophecy, removing Draco's last possible source for independent proof. At that point, Alexio no longer squandered any time in doubt and hope. He redoubled his efforts to build a sufficient power base and delay Harry Potter. Augusta Longbottom had never forgiven Harry, so he'd fed her information through proxies, studied, and waited. Alexio Vasconcelos had made fortunes greater than most countries and had spent most of it gaining real power. And he'd succeeded.

Millions relied on him. He'd used them, profited from them. They praised him for it.

 _Father would be proud,_ Draco agreed.

As Alexio consolidated his power, he'd consult with Draco. They tried to deduce Harry's endgame. The Chief Mugwump never did anything obviously malicious, but then again, he did nothing obvious. Alexio spent the last decade content to toss delays in Harry's way while building influence for the decisive moment. _Delay still is the strongest form of denial,_ after all. But Alexio's hands would be tied when the Statute of Secrecy got repealed. Alexio held a comparative advantage because he skirted the Statute, whereas Harry (and especially Hermione) did not. Freed from its restriction, Harry stood better placed to use the full power of the scientific method afterwards.

Draco absentmindedly fiddled with his golden ring. It reminded him of Hogwarts, the months he'd worn the silver ring that warned him of Legilmency, before he'd finished his own training. Back when he played at being Alexio, before he'd completely inhabited the persona. Alexio never played with his wedding band in public, but sometimes when he was alone, particularly when he spent a few minutes looking at the city, he just twisted it around his finger. Alexio stared at the city, contemplating whether he should attend the Convocation.

 _I am still angry at Lord Potter's refusal to visit me in Rio those two years ago,_ Alexio thought. _Declining would just be my impetuous nature, it would not arouse suspicion.  
_

 _We are powerful, but not political powerful enough to require a personal visit. Harry's acceptance would have angered others,_ Draco countered. _There is nothing to read beyond that, although the excuse would hold. Alexio's refusal is based on hubris. Our refusal ... are we afraid? If Harry has managed to unlock the secrets of the Maurader's Map, we would be revealed._

 _If he had done that, he would have given it to a trusted ally years ago,_ Alexio reminded him. _But he may posses some personal magic that he cannot transfer. We cannot rule out that chance that we'll be discovered, in a situation under his control._

The security for the Convocation would be as air-tight, despite Mad Eye's absence. Alexio had spent decades neutralizing Alastor Moody, who now lived as a hermit in a secluded woods, growing his own food, killing anyone who tried to get close. Mad Eye would live forever, if he didn't starve to death. Draco knew he'd never be able to kill Mad Eye, whose security was perfect. It could be, because Mad-Eye no longer cared to do anything useful. Nudging Mad-Eye's paranoia worked well enough. Draco smiled, remembering this obvious insight he'd learned from his heist, the first one. So, for the Convocation, Harry had delegated security to the best remaining aurors. Still, they were impressive. But no security could predict everything, and again Draco had no plans to take anything out or into the Convocation. That would be impossible, just as stealing the Philosopher's Stone would have been, so many years ago.

 _We are at an inflection point,_ Draco said _._ _Apart from advancing his plans, the repeal of the Statute will reduce Hermione Granger's influence on Harry. She will gain notoriety a second time, and helping the less fortunate will distract her. She will be mobbed by them, and her compassion will overcome her judgement for years. Her natural cautious advice to Harry will be reduced._

Fortunately Alexio didn't have to steal the security plans this time. He'd simply demanded assurances and coordination with his personal bodyguards and he'd studied them himself with Draco. They weren't complete, but what he'd been shown had been exhaustive.

Alexio had smiled at the inclusion of Basilisks. That's when they'd devised his latest plan - radiation poisoning. Still incredibly difficult to deal with, despite all the advances in magic and medicine. No, the optimal cure to radiation poisoning remained brute force. More accurately, brute time. Allow yourself to be turned to stone and simply wait for radioactive decay to solve the problem.

 _If we detonated our device near the Convocation, Harry would no doubt pounce on the plan of turning himself (and as many around him) into statues,_ Draco had declared. And so they'd gotten to work over the last year, arranging everything.

The flow of traffic on the highway below reminded Draco of a sinuous silvery Krait. Draco wished he could cast his Patronus and see it again for the first time in over three decades. Only Healani's birth, three years ago, convinced him he'd ever be able to cast it again. He'd never dared - of course - lest some unknown discovery reveal him after all these years. _Assuming I am not already revealed_.

Draco turned and walked away from the window and over to the table where he picked up a glass and sipped the last bit of scotch. Although Alexio never played, Draco sometimes read the daily (muggle) chess column, today's was covering one of Capablanca's great games. Draco hadn't played in decades, but he enjoyed seeing the games of the Grandmasters. Capablanca was the local favorite, of course.

 _Twenty days until the Convocation, plans mostly done_. Draco wondered if they'd be enough. Had he missed something? The security plans probably had some mis-information. Was Potter too powerful? He'd gained 34 years of time, and spent it all wisely, and Draco still didn't know.

 _Lord Potter had to juggle so much more_ , Alexio offered. _We have had more efficient use of time. And we are attacking, not defending._

 _Harry has his own plans,_ Draco answered.

They'd considered as many angles as possible. During his thuggish past, Alexio had collected curses, gathered any attack and spell he could torture out of other Dark Wizards. His politics hadn't taken much time, at least not until recently.

Draco poured another glass of scotch and considered the decision: attend the convocation or not? Both had risks.

Draco wondered how any playwright would treat this tale, if they somehow discovered it. _Would they consider these thirty-five years as one unbroken path. Inevitable? Probably, but they would be wrong. But perhaps it would make a better play, which is why they would write it that way. That story had dramatic tension. Improvisation had been necessary, it could have gone many ways._

Alexio nodded, in silent conversation with Draco. _There is a story, possibly even true. José Raúl Capablanca was with a gathering of experts, before he was terribly famous. And they were boasting about how far in advance they could calculation positions. And each expert added to the number. One would say, 'I see five moves ahead,' and the next would say ten, and the next would say twelve, and Capablanca said 'I see only one move ahead,' and when the other experts protested that he was much better than they were, he added 'but it is always the best move.'_

They sipped whiskey.

Alexio and the small part of him that remained Draco pondered the problem. The Convocation would change the world. And, as far as they were concerned, the only conceivable spot for an ambush.

 _But who would ambushing who?_

 _If Lord Potter knows, we will be captured and lose,_ Alexio said.

 _And if Harry doesn't know,_ Draco replied, _the world would be saved. At least for another few centuries. although the casualties will be horrific._

 _We do not shy from such things,_ Alexio reminded him.

 _We need more time,_ Draco thought. _Harry Potter remained too clever and increasingly powerful. The world was too important._

 _We do not have that luxury. We must decide. Against a clever opponent there is always risk. You taught me that._

Alexio made his decision, he walked back over to his desk, took out the elegant invitation. He quickly marked a note that he would attend, but only after his security detail had been there and returned briefing him to his satisfaction. He added a footnote stating that Alexio Vasconcelos understood Lord Potter's concerns with security, but he would not walk in blindly. He tossed the letter into the outbox, unsealed. Kao would read it, of course. And he would understand his boss' reluctance.

A powerful. arrogant man like Alexio would not be treated like a lackey, even by the Chief Mugwump of England. _This_ he would relay to Lord Potter.

Draco sighed. _There may still be some better way, but I haven't spotted it yet. Perhaps there is still time to improvise._

Perhaps he'd discover some other solution. Doubtful, but he had to take that chance.

Draco hoped that Harry Potter wouldn't spot the ambush. He'd surely work out the solution in time but he'd be busy and have no time to ponder how he'd gotten into such a dire position. Draco didn't worry about escape, Harry's own security would work against them. And of course his own wards would obliterate those who fled hastily. And on a purely magical level, few could stand up to his might.

No, Draco Malfoy hoped Harry wouldn't see the wand leveled at him and have that one second to recognize his failure. Or worse, recognize the hand holding the wand. Draco Malfoy and the man he created would never shy away from mass murder to save the world.

Still, he hoped to spare his friend's feelings.

If Draco Malfoy failed, he would fail as a Slytherin should, trying his utmost. Succeed or fail, Draco wondered if Harry would forgive him. When he realized.

He never wondered about Hermione. She would not. Perhaps after all this was over, Draco would - if he survived - try to rescue Dumbledore. He'd found some tantalizing leads over the last decade, but hadn't dared take the time to explore them fully. But he still had more pressing concerns.

Draco retreated back into the hidden recesses of his own mind as Alexio left his office to announce that he would attend the Convocation in a few weeks, and he wanted to take a small vacation and spend time relaxing with his wife and daughter.

* * *

 **Author's Note -** This concludes the story, barring an epilogue I may write next year. I personally think that the universe has a wide variety of stories left to tell (both in HPMOR, DMPOR and related) but I have said what I wanted. I intended merely a novella at most.

(Which reminds me, thanks go out to the inestimable u/veruchai who helped proof my final five or so chapters. I should have asked for help much earlier, since my eyes gloss over my own mistakes. There are still mistakes in the later chapters and they are still my fault - I sometimes revise at the last moment. He also shed light on obtuse and unclear writing).

As the saying goes "I don't want to write, I want to _have written,"_ and pulling together over 180k words in under ten months is more than I expected. I've discovered some strengths and their corresponding weaknesses along the way, and I'm sure that others have noticed them as well. Some people are annoyed at how this turned out for a variety of reasons. This story isn't what they expected and my idea of an intellectual ambush (to put the reader in Harry's frame of mind) turned off many.

But while it may not have been the story you hoped was coming, it was the story I intended to tell. I found myself intensely interested in writing it, which made it easy - well, less difficult - to put words on the screen at a brisk pace, and I found myself adding side arcs that probably led to this looking like it would be more 'complete' than not. But I had always intended it to be what it is - an origin story. I've struggled with other writing projects and had (until this year) simply decided that I was incapable of putting together a long story. Now that I have discovered I was wrong, so now I will revisit some of my original ideas and see which hold my interest, after I take a break, and how I can pick a story that plays to my strengths and hides my weaknesses.

I hope the reasons I made the choice to have flash-forwards and show what happened indirectly are now understandable, even if you think them wrong.

As these are original works I doubt I will post them here. I will also continue writing about board games at my website (taogaming dot wordpress dot com).

I may write smaller works - and I do have an epilogue in mind. The biggest shock to me was how much fun it was to write Quirrell's lecture. If I did come back to this universe, I think that _Quirrell-The Lost Lectures_ would be wonderful.

If you are now desperate for other HPMOR fan fiction, I recommend the sub-reddit r/hpmor to find others. If you lurk or post there, you already know that the clear best continuation (in terms of writing) is 'Significant Digits,' which is the only one I have consistently read without fear that there would be much cross-contamination (since it skipped ahead seven years). I would have read it in any case, it is so well crafted, and I've been pleased (for no rational reason) by some points of convergent evolution between our stories (totally unintended by both sides). I put ideas on paper, he is a master wordsmith.

I never felt more correct in my decision to not show Hermione's harrowing of Azkaban then after I read his version. Even if you don't read the full story, read that chapter (16).

I also would like to thank the author of Ginny Weasley and the Sealed Intelligence (which I stopped reading when I decided to make this a full fledged story) for convincing me that Lockhart could make a worth-while addition to this story.


	63. Destroying the Legend (Epilogue, Part I)

_"Once I saw a Devil in a flame of fire,_

 _who arose before an Angel that sat on a cloud,_

 _and the Devil uttered these words._

 _'The worship of God is:_

 _Honoring his gifts in other men each according to his genius,_

 _and loving the greatest men best:_

 _those who envy or calumniate great men hate God,_

 _for there is no other God.'"  
_

* * *

Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres ran through his checklist as he floated underwater, just outside the arch leading into Atlantis.

He held an actual laminated checklist. Studies done nearly two-hundred and fifty years ago conclusively demonstrated that even experts with thousands of hours of training - like pilots and surgeons - sometimes forgot a critical step. Harry considered himself the world's foremost living authority on Atlantis. But he had no actual experience with it, yet.

Nobody did. The greatest living expert merely meant Harry was the least ignorant. He went methodically down his checklist to ensure he hadn't forgotten anything. He reviewed the defenses he expected to encounter and the correct countermeasures, from first down to the last. Reminders as to which spells to favor. He flipped the checklist over to the back, then went to the second page.

Even by Harry's rather demanding standards he felt prepared. As prepared as possible. Harry had spent two decades practicing for this moment in an underwater training facility.

Despite what earlier conservative politicians proclaimed, you _could_ eventually disband a government agency without violent uprising. All you had to do was make the effective human life span " _As much as you'd care to enjoy_ " and spend several generations training people to think. Once you did _that_ even politicians started widening their time horizons and raising their level of discourse.

It took decades longer than he'd hoped. But there had been progress.

Humanity no longer lived solely on one single frail eggshell. Bowie Base One supported nearly a million souls. The Sovereign Moon held a seat on the U.N. Security Council. Some time ago the American government ministers (or more likely, their constituents) had read the writing on the wall. Humanity had far fewer problems during the Third Enlightenment (as the History books called it), but they had problems nonetheless. Each innovation _usually_ brought more rewards than challenges, but there were constant issues to deal with.

And even when all your problems were smaller, you still spent most of your time dealing with them. Problems - no matter how big or small - required resources to be allocated efficiently.

Once corporations routinely captured and mined asteroids and frontier towns had sprung up on other planets and moons, space had long ago ceased to be a 'research' problem, and just one of scale. The (original) world's nations had other problems to address and so a controversial measure proposed by the Distinguished Gentlewoman from Costa Rica made its way into law.

N.A.S.A had been privatized in 2089.

Harry had snapped up a fair percentage of the assets to prepare for his inevitable exploration of Atlantis. He kept one of the original Apollo space suits back at Hogwarts because _obviously_ they deserved to be seen, and few people alive had a real appreciation for that part of humanity's history. Publicly buying space trinkets was just Harry being Harry, snapping up mementos from a bygone age few remembered was the sort of thing people expected Harry Potter to do. It was no stranger than anything else he'd done. If Harry could hide his true intentions by publicly appearing to be what the media portrayed him as, that was fine with him. _A good move has multiple purposes._ If Harry could inspire his students with a few props that was an added benefit.

But as he made the purchase Harry knew that one day he'd swim into Atlantis.

Once he discovered where it was.

He'd started _that_ task even before his marriage. Scholars told him Atlantis would be impossible to find. All legends agreed there were no clues and no traces of the civilization to be found. But that had not been tested experimentally. He started researching, but just in case there really weren't clues or tricks, that left Harry one option.

He brute forced it.

Before Harry celebrated his thirtieth birthday he'd discovered a renowned Muggle exploring the ocean floor and mapping its depths. Harry Potter simply introduced himself, demonstrated enough magic to be convincing, revealed everything he knew about Atlantis and swore him to secrecy.

What explorer could resist?

Even during the decades Harry Potter spent petrified his high-tech search for Atlantis continued. Long after Harry's dispirited acolytes had thrown their hands up in frustration and abandoned their tasks, one man hunted for Atlantis. After a century, it remained undiscovered.

Harry - awake again - went back and re-examined the data. A painstaking analysis revealed ... _nothing_.

Harry ran the analysis again - this time under the watchful eyes of Aurors - they noticed some discrepancies and the tell-tale sign of Obliviation. Harry narrowed down the search to a few specific sites. After that it was a matter of time, and after another decade, the location.

As far as Harry could tell, James Cameron was the first, second and fourth person to discover the entrance to Atlantis - only to have his memory altered each time.

Now Harry floated in front of the gate, giddy.

Harry had been _happy_ most of his life, but bouts of giddy-ness had become increasingly rare. Harry speculated that giddy-ness (closely related to surprise) followed a pattern similar to the Prime Number Theory and became more infrequent as you got older, but never really disappeared.

Unlike primes and pure maths (which followed their own deep mysteries) Harry could adjust his expected giddyness by trying new things. Harry resolutely _ignored_ all arguments that other people could do this. Atlantis was not his life's work, but it had always been there, in the background, and he was not about to give into those who said it was too dangerous for him. So he put aside all the words from the people who told him to delegate. Thankfully Luna wasn't one of them.

But he _listened_ to their arguments.

Harry might be risking his life, but life was meant to be lived. Still, he'd listened. He'd taken every precaution suggested and even more. All he could think of.

His backed Bubble Head spell with state of the art rebreather equipment, and then scuba equipment. And an emergency rebreather. He had a plastic bag full of gillyweed in case things got desperate and he decided to stay, and five portkeys to scattered safe spots at a variety of depths (to avoid the bends). One portkey led a pressurized chamber in London, with healers waiting. Legend said you couldn't Apparate _into_ Atlantis but no countermeasures prevented leaving, assuming you didn't take anything with you.

The stories - evidence was a strong word, too strong for his research - _felt_ accurate. Harry knew that wasn't evidence, but evidence was not forthcoming.

Eventually Plupplup and Blboblb - the Mermish Aurors who'd demanded that Harry tell them the location of Atlantis so it could be investigated 'by the proper authorities' - had blown bubbles of exasperation and agreed to swim just outside Atlantis and allow Harry his moment.

For _anyone else_ (well, almost anyone else) they'd have ignored his complaints and gone on their own.

Harry knew how to use the awe his name inspired. Blboblb and Plupplup had asked him nicely instead of simply shutting him down when they'd first visited him, decades ago. After Harry demurred, they placed a bewildering array of what they considered ridiculous demands. They expected Harry to object, after which they would go over his head. In the name of safety. Harry's safety.

They'd heard the legends of _Harry Potter_. But they didn't _understand_ them. Not yet.

Harry complied with their demands.

He turned over every scrap of lore about Atlantis (except its location) and agreed that he'd have to best a crack Mermish Auror Trio in underwater combat before he'd swim through the gates. Harry also agreed that his test would involve situations where he'd swim in without advanced knowledge of the territory set up with whatever non-lethal trap they desired.

The Aurors complained that they had much better facilities for this. Harry privately agreed, but didn't want to publicly spend years training with Merfolk. Even the Muggle press would grasp the implications. But he'd taken sabbaticals at his American retreat for decades. That would arouse no suspicion. Harry un-mothballed an old NASA underwater training facility, tossed Plupplup the keys and said to call when they were ready.

Only then did the two mermen stop and really think about Harry Potter's childhood, before he became famous.

They set off to work.

Harry hadn't had that much fun in decades. It was like the childhood he'd never finished.

It took years. The Aurors felt surprised after they'd defeated Harry the first time. It had been ... _easy_. Harry Potter boasted respectable fighting talent, but the world had caught up during his years of stasis. He kept surprises up his sleeves but he'd taught his students well. Neither merman had Harry's innate cleverness, but they'd been diligent, and had been taught well by students of Harry's techniques.

Harry thanked the Aurors for the battle, learned from his mistake, and improved his plan. The next battle took longer.

Harry lost. He reviewed, learned, and studied. Harry Potter had all the time in the world. He kept up with his other duties, disappearing for a long weekend here and there to relax. Nobody really noticed. Harry was never particularly social, but he kept up correspondences. Harry lost his third battle and the fourth. As he lost battles he won over the Aurors' respect, as they learned the fundamental truth about him.

Harry Potter was not a God, just a clever man in an increasingly clever world. A world which (thankfully) no longer needed him, but respected his position and the influence he'd had. Harry had drifted into legend - for a while - but after he'd been revived he drifted back out of legend as people met him and judged him. The clever ones realized that he'd done everything with the tricks he'd taught them. He might have new tricks (there were always new tricks) but now they _understood_ his techniques, even if they didn't always use them.

The world had thanked him, rewarded him well, listened to his advice and humoured Harry. They let him do pretty much anything he wanted, within reason. And sometimes beyond reason, at least in this case. That's what the Aurors had initially done. But as they defeated him over and over with less and less margin for error they watched the smiling man thank them, retreat, recover, regroup and rejoin the fight. Within two years Harry was a knowledgeable underwater tactician, albeit with physical skills only equal to a Mermish teenager.

Within five years, he routinely defeated unsuspecting Mermish Aurors in underwater duel.

After ten years Blboblb formally withdrew his objection. Harry Potter said there was no rush and he still had much to learn. After twenty years he'd defeated every challenge they could think of.

Then - and only then - Harry started preparations in earnest. He could finally see the endgame.

It had been fun. He thought he probably could have done it ten years, maybe eight. _You can't rush physical skills_. But he'd only spent a third of his time preparing for Atlantis. He'd had policies to craft, made sure to spend time with all the friends he accumulated over his life. As Harry said, there was no rush, and much more important matters to attend to.

The melding of Science and Magic meant barriers fell at an amazing pace.

Practically every day another iota of enlightenment could be squeezed from the advances. Every decade saw another major discovery. Grasping the implications an exploring them was Harry's full time job. The speed of light hadn't fallen. There were still hopes, but the maths were difficult. Research was slow and (by definition) had no fixed endpoint. Humanity had time to expand but eventually even the solar system would get full.

Births had fallen dramatically, but not nearly as dramatically as deaths.

Construction of the Dyson Disk had already started. It wouldn't house anyone for centuries and would probably never be finished. For now, they were only using materials already in orbit, but at some point those would run out ... by now most people doubted that the speed of light would ever be defeated.

Harry demurred an opinion. Prophecy was a tricky thing. Harry was just a man, but he had insider information. and how could he destroy the very stars if he couldn't get to them? In any case, assuming that they were stuck in this solar system was practical for now, so Harry just shrugged his shoulders and let the physicists do their work.

Harry's other main task was the same it had ever been. Encouraging and educating humanity. Now - thanks to his legend - that task consumed most of his time. if not much of his thoughts.

Harry had a canned intro he used during the numerous speeches he gave. Commencement speeches at Schools of Wizardry around the world were all basically the same. The speaker, some accomplished whitchard who seemed ancient to hir teenaged students but was a century Harry's junior, would extoll Harry's accomplishments - all long overshadowed by those who stood on his shoulders - and end with something like "I am honoured to present your speaker, the Legend, The Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter!"

Harry had his speech memorized, but held a note card with the Symposiarch's name. (The sole item on his "Speech" preparation checklist). Harry would smile and nod or wave as the mood struck him, then go into his speech.

"Thank you, but I would like to remind _insert previous speaker's title and name here_ that we live in the Age of Symbiosis. I am not a legend, just a man. Perhaps a man ahead of his time, as people say. But times have caught up and surpassed me. The times have surpassed us all, even you who are about to embark on your new adventures. Our worlds are too big for any one person to explore, but that also means that they are big enough that any one person can find something new. You can be the first to glimpse some distant vista or uncover some new scientific principle. Build a better boggart trap. Invent a new flavor of ice cream. Age is no barrier. The only barriers exist inside you. If you have a strong desire, a good work ethic, a bit of cleverness, and the courage to believe in yourself, you can do anything. Those four attributes make the Herald of a little school I attended long ago and ran a while later. You may have heard of it."

Harry would wait for the polite laughter at his unfunny joke to die down before continuing.

"They say I'm a legend, but I'm just a man. There are no more mystical figures of legend. As a former legend I can tell you a secret: Not only are there no more, there never were. No legends. Just people. Any of you ... no make that all of you ... could become what people call a legend. But if you do you'll learn what I know. You'll feel the same. If you become a quote legend unquote you'll get there the way any quote normal person does. Because there are just people. There are no legends."

That was another applause line, and every time when Harry gave his speech he paused for the claps and murmured approvals.

But during that moment - before he pivoted into the main topic, whatever lesson he felt like discussing that day - as he said the final words and explained that there were no legends, while he waited for the applause to die...

In that moment a small voice in his head _always_ spoke up. To chide Harry and remind him.

 _There is still one legend left._

That voice that kept Harry focused during the long decades. That voice - which sometimes named _Gryffindor_ , sometimes _Slytherin_ , sometimes _Ravenclaw_ but usually _Hufflepuff_ \- strengthened Harry's resolve to complete the Herculean tasks set before him by those Aurors. _That voice_ forced him to smile when he wanted to rant, to persevere past most people's endurance.

That was the voice Harry worked to quiet. And on this day he would succeed. Harry Potter swam through the gates of Atlantis.

The time had come to destroy one more legend and rescue one man.


	64. Gates of Ivory and Horn (Epilogue, II)

_"The Angel hearing this became almost blue_

 _but mastering himself he grew yellow,_

 _& at last white, pink  & smiling, and then replied: _

_'Thou Idolator, is not God One?_

 _& is not he visible in Jesus Christ?_

 _and has not Jesus Christ given his sanction to the law of the ten commandments,_

 _and are not all other men fools, sinners, & nothings?"  
_

* * *

Harry Potter stared at the Kraken gently floating in the distance.

It stretched across his entire field of vision, covering the full arc. Directly in front of him was the thorax and one large tentacle that branched off towards him before drifting down from the light blue water in front of him and disappearing in the inky black depths of a crevasse that marked the edge of Atlantis. The tip of a second tentacle lolled through Atlantis' main agora, twisting between buildings like an errant oil pipeline from the bygone days of fossil fuels. Other tentacles trailed away in various directions to his (current) left side.

Presumably the head was off to his right, perhaps a nautical mile or two distant. Harry couldn't see it as the body disappeared into the murky ocean in the distance. A dolphin gamboled along the edge of the Kraken, nudging it once or twice. Schools of fished pirouetted in their eternal dance in the background, splitting up and regrouping according to simple rules to produce complex beauty. Harry's gaze lingered on the dolphin for a second. Its behaviour increased the probability that Harry's research was correct, that the Kraken wasn't a threat, assuming dolphins understand Krakens better than humans. The dolphin didn't seem afraid of the slumbering Kraken.

The Kraken didn't bother Harry.

He'd practiced dealing with Krakens. He'd made detailed plans on dealing with any number of magical aquatic beasts, both common and uncommon. Krakens were rare, and had been considered mythical for centuries, but they existed and so Harry had prepared. The Ancient Libraries of Pacifis contained records dating back nearly fifteen hundred years tied, woven in giant kelp strands. They were knotted into the language of Merfolk much like ancient Andeans used knotted strings as records and books. As tempting as it had been, Harry hadn't bothered learning to read archaic Mermish. He'd simply hired experts to literally comb through the library and summarize the information for him.

There were three references that contained the rings of truth, and not just tall tales passed along. From those Harry hoped he knew what to expect. Krakens were notoriously difficult to deal with physically but had no specialized mental defenses. An unnamed Viking from the early twelfth century had _Imperiused_ a Kraken that had happened to be lolling on the surface near his skiff. But the viking had gotten lucky that the beast had ignored him. Much like anything else, a strength often implied a corresponding weakness. Krakens rarely bothered attacking anything smaller than a ship displacing ten-thousand tonnes, and probably couldn't even detect a swimming wizard (or dolphin). If the Viking sailed an 18th century Ship of the Line, the Kraken would have crushed him instead of sunning itself, oblivious to his approach. Hide thick enough to repel the strongest magics rendered it insensitive to small pests like humans, dolphins, or row boats. The odds of a Kraken deliberately crushing a nearby swimmer were miniscule.

The odds of getting _accidentally_ sucked into its gills or smashed by a tentacle as the Kraken swam along were phenomenally higher.

If you needed to defeat a Kraken? Other encounters compiled by the Merpeople confirmed that a Kraken's eyes were the windows to the soul and mind. The trick was finding the eye then stunning the Kraken before it saw you. Or crushed you to death accidentally. Harry had expected at least one amazing mythical beast, and had prepared.

The Kraken didn't bother Harry. It was already unconscious.

 _That fact_ troubled Harry, because he hadn't done anything. He'd just arrived.

 _What good was a defense system that didn't work?_ The Kraken seemed like the Atlantean equivalent to a laser-filled hallway with exquisitely precise motion sensors, floor pressure plates capable of detecting the smallest change in weight, mana detection runes and lethal countermeasures ... all turned off. Harry swam away from the Kraken, down into the main ruins of Atlantis. All of his sensors - magical spells, sonar, pressure and current gauges - indicated no threat other than the Kraken.

That also disturbed him, and he thought as he swam towards the city.

 _Theory #1 - Conspicuous Consumption._ The Kraken's mere existence represented a phenomenal show of force, a symbolic warning against those who would dare to trespass. It said that _Atlantis has such ridiculously good defences that we wasted a Kraken._ This would not fit Harry's style - a 'Do not disturb' sign would work nicely - but perhaps the ancients had their own peculiar style. Warnings shouldn't depend on subtlety or the target making inferential leaps, so Harry was inclined to discount this theory. If the Kraken had been intended as a warning, Harry considered that it would probably be prudent to heed it. But he swam on, thinking still.

 _Theory #2 - Coincidence_. Perhaps the Kraken was just passing through, or had made Atlantis its home. There was a logic to that - Atlantis had been an above-water city and only later an underwater ruin. While Harry had trained with Merpeople, there was no reason to believe that Atlantis had specialized ocean-based defenses. It might not have any traps remaining after all this time underwater. Perhaps the Kraken just liked the view, its own little miniature town to play with. Maybe it felt attracted by the nature of the city. Harry could feel the magic in his bones, it made his hair try to stand up underneath his wet-suit. The Kraken might enjoy that feeling.

After all, the nature of Atlantis attracted Harry. Harry didn't plan based on coincidences, but they happened more often than plots and he couldn't rule out that the Kraken simply admired the magical decor of the place.

 _Theory #3 - Someone else had beaten him to Atlantis and dealt with the Kraken._ This was the most troubling theory.

By all accounts Krakens slept hard. If someone else had knocked it out, it would sleep for years. Decades. At least one (non-verified) story said that the famous Greek Kraken slept for four or five centuries at a time when Zeus wasn't releasing it. Apocryphal, but that _would_ account for the disappearance of Kraken's from Muggle sea lore from the time of Admiral Nelson. Harry briefly worried his dallying had cost him, which was ludicrous. Atlantis had been down here for Millennia. The chances that he'd been beaten by a year or even a decade seemed small.

Of all of the theories Harry imagined, this wasn't the most plausible theory. But it was the most _actionable._

And it wasn't like looking out for a potentially hostile other wizard differed much much from watching for magical defenses in general.

Harry swam down to the ocean floor. Entering the city on the east side, well away from the stray tentacle.

The buildings had a style Harry labelled _Classically Greek_ , but with more ornamentation that he'd seen in the Parthenon or the recreations of other ancient sites. Falcons, Owls and other sculptures of Patronuses looked down on the ocean floor from the tops of buildings. Atlantis had a simpler architecture, more consistent than the magical buildings of his youth which, like Hogwarts, tended more towards chaos than consistency. But statuary and carvings made each building distinct. Harry could look from building to building and see the same shapes. Houses were all roughly the same size with the same layout of doors. He could pick out repeated features, not mass produced like Muggle technology, but either the Atlanteans had a building code or specific reasons for design. Large windows faced north, with smaller doorways to the south. Apart from the ornamentation, sigils near each door and etchings on the side, the buildings looked near identical.

Smaller buildings clustered along the outskirts of town. Larger buildings - probably meeting houses, marketplaces, and the like - were towards the center.

The city looked serene, as if it had been gently lowered into a bowl of water and then ... nothing. The difficulty of finding Atlantis had doubtless helped to keep it from being looted, but Harry had expected much more damage and decay. Most buildings looked intact, although a few had collapsed into the crevasse. Historians had never nailed down the exact nature of Atlantis' destruction, although the topic was hotly argued. (Harry had long since stopped using the word _debated_ when discussing differences of opinions about legend), but Harry had expected it to look like ... , well, more like a disaster.

 _What kind of natural disaster destroys an entire population, but leaves the city intact?_ _Disease seems obvious, but then it would be above ground. An odd coincidence._ Even now, swimming among the ruins, no answer presented itself to Harry. If Atlantis sank slowly, the citizens would have relocated. Muggles did that all the time, abandoning cities that became uninhabitable. For powerful wizards it would be minor annoyance, no more. If Hogsmeade fell into a newly-created sea, the world would hear the complaints. Complaining occupied a good portion of every day life. But Atlantis had just - ceased, with not a single record or complaint.

It seemed unlikely that the population survived the disaster.

But the city of Atlantis had. It looked abandoned, but peaceful. Just submerged as if it had been placed inside an unshaken snow globe. If it had been a quickly submerged, enough to kill the population (if a natural dam had burst, for example) then Harry's quick Fermi calculation indicated more buildings would be destroyed. _Unless they were magically reinforced,_ Harry thought, doubting himself automatically.

A neutron bomb or other modern technological horror could have done the trick, but technologically those hadn't existed ( _had they_?). Magically ... Harry didn't know.

Harry swam up to one of the smaller houses and wordlessly cast five spells to verify his solitude. His _panoptis_ incantation caused his vision to flash yellow and Harry quickly spun around, wand in hand. He started to cast a wide ranging stunning spell, but the only created he saw was a dolphin that stopped abruptly and stared at him. It floated just past the corner of the alleyway, halfway between the ground and the roof.

Harry remembered the dolphin inspecting the Kraken. _Was this the same one?_ Even if he'd been looking down at the dolphin swimming in a pool, Harry doubted he could tell dolphins apart. Underwater, in the depths illuminated by some natural light and the glare of his headlamps, he had no chance. The dolphin floated there, waiting and watching him. Harry didn't lower his guard, but relaxed a bit. Dolphins could be dangerous, but they were no Krakens.

In other ways dolphins posed more of a threat. Dolphins weren't magical, but were definitely sentient. That also meant they could be reasoned with.

"My name is Harry Potter," Harry said calmly in his passable (albeit heavily accented) Mermish. Well, his name he bubbled in closest equivalent he could find phonetically, which basically sounded like 'Harry Potter' spoken underwater. Hahahahrraaeyeeye Potttototor. The dolphin's head swiveled around a bit, to take in Harry with one eye. It was tough to judge another species facial expressions. The human mind spent immense power to read human faces, but those didn't translate well the further you walked the evolutionary tree. But some part of Harry thought the the dolphin looked ... _intrigued_.

The dolphin didn't move beyond small gestures to hold its position in the mild current. It just watched him, fins slowly pushing up and down in the water. Harry dare not turn his back on it. But Blboblb had not withdrawn his objections trivially. Harry slowly reached into his pouch and pulled out a small crystal. He gave it a squeeze and made a small mental command: ' _Dolphin greeting.'_

The crystal erupted in a series of squeaks, chirps and squeals. Even in his own range of hearing, it sounded impressive, but Harry knew the sounds had a range many kilohertz above human hearing.

Even before the sounds died out, the dolphin convulsed with laughter. Bubbles of air escaped the blowhole as it rolled back and forth slightly, shuddering with amusement. Harry squeezed his crystal again, waiting for the translated answer, but there was nothing. He frowned.

* * *

 _"The Devil answer'd,_

 _'Bray a fool in a morter with wheat,_

 _yet shall not his folly be beaten out of him;_

 _If Jesus Christ is the greatest man,_

 _you ought to love him in the greatest degree:_

 _now hear how he has given his sanction to the law of the ten commandments:"  
_

Alexio laughed like he hadn't in years.

Earlier, Alexio Vasconcelos had been stunned to see Harry Potter. All of his spies, moles, sources and spells agreed that Harry had been a statue for several decades now. Harry, along with one-hundred thirteen other unfortunate victims, were safely inside the Department of Mysteries, until their radiation levels allowed for depetrification. _When had Harry gotten free_? _Had he never truly been trapped?_ _How had they circumvented the radiation?_ Alexio didn't trust any of his spies - that's why he had so many, and why they were all ignorant of the others existence - but he trusted physics and radioactive decay followed a predictable schedule. In the first year after his trap, Alexio confirmed and double checked the list of victims, to make sure that Harry hadn't escaped. Then Alexio had relaxed and decided to use his time fulfilling an earlier goal of his - of Draco's.

Alexio's search led him to Atlantis. The obvious destination, in hindsight. Finding it hadn't been simple, but Alexio had access to esoteric works and vaults and accumulated lore that wizards decades his senior would have killed for, had they known he possessed it. His search had taken extensive resources and years, but the resolution had never been in doubt.

Alexio found Atlantis.

And, unexpectedly, Harry Potter.

He froze when he stumbled across Harry swimming through Atlantis as though it was just another adventure. He'd been stunned to see the Harry Potter he'd spent decades plotting and conspiring against swimming in the immaculate ruins. It was so wildly improbable and unexpected that, for once, Alexio had no idea what to do.

Fortunately Alexio's passive defenses continued working. Over his wet-suit he wore his newest invention, robes with a calming illusions. He'd had the idea decades ago, after a few bad experiences with Armageddon Enchantments. Armageddon robes had their purpose, but lacked subtlety. The viewer's eyes slid off the wearer, to be sure. But the apprehension and fear that the spell caused triggered a fight or flight response. Armageddon robes put everyone on high alert, which was counter-productive.

Alexio often needed to appear _innocuous_ , like he belonged in the situation. The enchantment worked on the same principle as before - don't bother with illusions and simply attack the victim's mental state - but with more serene results. Often times Alexio could pass unawares through a crowd and even walk past supposedly guarded doors. It was not that the guard weren't aware of him, the robes did not make you forget.

They just made it seemed like you belonged. Guards didn't see Alexio, they saw their employer, or an Auror, or any number of 'authorized personnel,' walk through the restricted door. Anything that seemed reasonable. So when Harry whirled on Alexio, somehow detecting him, he'd simply frozen and hoped that his Affinity Robes worked.

Alexio dare not raise shields. Armaggedon robes worked on brute force, but he'd learned the price payed for a more subtle illusion was that it was more easily disrupted. If the guard stopped to think about it, he may wonder why his employer was here instead of on that business trip. Doing anything that contradicted the viewer's beliefs would shatter the illusion and break the spell. And while Alexio had a decent mental model of Harry Potter, nobody could be said to have a good one.

Still, Alexio's wand was ready.

Harry spoke something that sounded like Mermish. Alexio stared. That could be a problem ... Alexio didn't speak Mermish and if Harry was seeing a Merperson, he'd get suspicious if he wasn't answered. Alexio's wand twitched nervously. Harry had obvious shields up, and that meant he had other less-visible means of defence. Alexio glanced at Harry's wand. It was the same one he always had. That was good, some of his spies said that Harry had been seen (rarely, but from time to time) with the Elder Wand. Perhaps if he attacked Harry, he could win.

Possible, but probably no better than a coin toss. _Non-lethally?_ That seemed unlikely.

Alexio considered raising more subtle shields, perhaps if he just retreated... he furiously considered his options.

Harry had pulled out some magical bauble like nothing Alexio had encountered and then the dolphin squeals started.

He couldn't help himself. He laughed with relief, laughter that echoed in his mind by Draco Malfoy.

 _A Dolphin! Harry Potter sees a dolphin!_

A stroke of luck, or perhaps his invention worked even better than he'd hoped? After a few second Alexio controlled himself and calmly swam away into the nearest building. It's what a dolphin would do, and in any case Alexio was in no position to deal with Harry now. Given that Harry considered Alexio to be part of the local fauna, he doubted Harry would attack him. The prudent course of action was to retreat and try to figure out what had gone horribly wrong and why Harry was awake - and in Atlantis of all places - but that meant ceding any discoveries to Harry.

As long as Alexio's Robes functioned Harry would simply view him as something that belonged. Harry would be thinking, to be sure, but even if he did somehow see through the illusion - well, just because he'd managed to escape his fate as a statue didn't mean that Harry had any particular knowledge of Alexio Vasconcelos' past identity. At worst, Alexio and Harry were rival archeologists searching the same site. Some deception and secrecy would be expected. Even if Harry later worked out that he'd been tricked, Alexio could simply admit that he'd been racing Harry Potter to discover the secrets of Atlantis, which was true enough.

It was rational. Harry would accept that, even if he was annoyed. He might try to bargain or negotiate or cajole, but he would not attack if he discovered _Alexio's_ deception. Of this, Alexio felt sure.

So, Alexio continued his exploration. If Harry thought starting in one of the side buildings had value, Alexio saw no reason to second guess that. He swam through the doorway and paused to take stock.

The house could have passed for a Muggle apartment, albeit spartan and low technology. It looked comfortable, even elegant. A plush couch ran along one side of the room between two ornately crafted end tables, legs made of what appeared to be twirled ivory. Narwhale horns. Beautiful shells lined the table, reflecting all the colours of the rainbow from the glowing light that emanated from the very walls themselves. The couch faced a simple fireplace carved into the building's stone wall. Wrought iron pokers, dull black, stood sentry in a rack beside it. The couch's fabric appeared bright and unfaded, a clean floral print.

Alexio was impressed. Magical items degraded slower than Muggle tools, but they degraded all the same. The elements would not be denied, at least not by the modern magics he grew up with. Spells had to be renewed, so seeing Atlantis in such pristine condition after eons spoke well of the magic of its inhabitants. Nothing rusted or faded. The lighting spells had not faltered, either. These were just throw-away enchantments meant to keep houses tidy.

Alexio whistled his appreciation inside his bubble head sphere, idly wondering what that sounded like to Harry. _Probably a high pitched squeal_ , he thought as he swam through the house.

Alexio heard Harry swim into the house behind him, while he inspected the kitchen.

The kitchen table was still set. Small ivory spears the size of knitting needles were set besides plates in lieu of knives and forks. But also spoons and glasses. Red wine filled one of the glasses, the color clear and ominous and Draco was reminded of the phrase "The Wine Dark Sea _."_ Besides the glass, a crystal pitcher also held wine, as if the pourer had only had time to pour one glass when the disaster occurred. Alexio stared as the wine from the glass and pitcher started to mix with the surrounding water, viscous globes slowly spreading and diffusing into the salty brine.

Alexio watched the scene for several seconds, uncomprehending and merely observing before realization sunk in.

 _The disaster just happened here. Moments ago. Seconds ago. Atlantis was frozen, somehow. Which explains why my search ended here. Atlantis is also trapped beyond time._ _No matter when I arrived in Atlantis, it would have always been right after the disaster, in the Atlantean frame of reference. And if that is true for me, it would be true of any searcher ... Harry wouldn't bother with Atlantis until he had no pressing business, which means ...  
_

Alexio spun around. He saw Harry Potter staring through the doorway, eyes fixed on the same place setting, tracking the wine diffusing into the ocean. Alexio raised his wand and started Al-Jabber's Silent Stupefication spells. Alexio raised his shields just as Harry calmly flicked his wand.

Alexio's Robes rent apart just as his shields went up.

Harry's eyes widened, but he made no move to cast again. Harry seemed to be searching for the right words.

Alexio could imagine Harry's predicament. Harry faced significant information leakage problems. Difficult enough when limited to six hours. How much of a problem did this Harry face? Alexio watched the range of emotions playing across Harry's face for the briefest moment. Harry had been stunned, as surprised as Alexio had been when he realized Harry saw him as a dolphin. Potter's training kicked in, but it was too late. Before all emotion drained from his face at some level Alexio ... Draco ... knew. _This Harry_ arrived from far enough in the future.

 _This Harry_ had witnessed their endgame. Harry had come out of his enforced delay and Alexio's next plan had failed. Or perhaps the one after that. It didn't matter. Harry had discovered who had plotted against him. He had no logic to back it up, but Alexio knew.

 _Had Harry imprisoned me out of necessity? Had he killed me? Did he hate me? Did Harry regret what had happened as much as I did?_

And the last thought, his greatest fear. Had _it all been a misunderstanding?_

More than he'd wanted anything in a long time, Alexio/Draco yearned to know the answers. How it all turned out.

And he knew _again he just knew_ that Harry wouldn't tell him. Harry Potter would be capable of biting his tongue no matter how much he wanted to explain. _(If he did)_.

Alexio reminded himself that the possibility remained that Draco was merely projecting his hopes and desires onto the Harry Potter that swam before him today. Today there would be no answers.

"I know you are from the future, Harry Potter," Alexio said. He'd seen numerous small details in Harry's equipment and general bearing that confirmed his hypothesis. In hindsight it was obvious that the Crystal melded technology and magic in a strange hybrid function (although an MP3 player would have done just as well).

Alexio didn't berate himself for missing it. Time-traveling (beyond the six hour limit of Time turners) had never entered his mind as a hypothesis.

Harry seemed satisfied with Alexio's statement, like it settled a number of issues and made everything smoother. Harry still paused for a second, apparently considering implications. Alexio waited patiently. _If Harry was from the future, he would have more to consider._ After a few more seconds, during which Harry tugged on his recently trimmed beard, he finally spoke up.

"One question, a safe question that has no bearing on our situation, but I'd like to know. Your robes. Did you invent the Lotus Eater Enchantment ... Alexio, isn't it?"

 _Is he calling me Alexio because he doesn't know? Or on the off chance that I don't suspect?_ In the end, it didn't matter. The game had rules, and now was not the time to break them.

"Lotus Eater?" Alexio cocked his head, carefully pronouncing the words. "I am not familiar with that phrase," he said, emphasizing his normally mild Portuguese accent.

"In Muggle Greek mythology, those who ate the Lotus became complacent with the world around them. Not oblivious, just ... content."

"That is a good name," Alexio agreed with a chuckle, "better than the one I used. Yes, it is mine. I take some comfort you overcame it only because it was already known to you."

"It's on my checklist. Along with many other mind-altering magics. I still didn't catch it right away," Harry added in a comforting voice. "That's the trouble with Pasithean illusions. They seem so reasonable. You don't notice your confusion. At some level I always thought whoever designed them ..." Harry trailed off, and didn't finish explaining what he thought.

Alexio slowly lowered his wand, other hand up in a surrendering gesture and spoke calmly and confidently.

"You saw the wine. You of all people understand the implications. Everyone who has ever sought out Atlantis has arrived now - at the same time. I suspect you and I are here for the same purpose, Harry Potter. Later on, I may have questions. Perhaps you do, too. Those must wait until we both pass this time in your timeline. We each possess different knowledge, but we share the same goal."

"Tell me my purpose, then," Harry said. His wand never wavered from Alexio.

"We are both here to rescue Albus Dumbledore," Alexio said solemnly. The seconds ticked by.

"Truce?" Harry Potter asked.

"Truce," Alexio agreed.

They swam out of the doorway side by side, discussing their respective plans for exploring Atlantis.


	65. The Marriage of Heaven & Hell (Epi III)

_"did he not mock at the sabbath,_

 _and so mock the sabbath's God?_

 _murder those who were murdered because of him?_

 _turn away the law from the woman taken in adultery?_

 _steal the labor of others to support him?_

 _bear false witness when he omitted making a defense before Pilate?_

 _..._

 _I tell you, no virtue can exist with breaking these ten commandments._

 _Jesus was all virtue, and acted from impulse, not from rules."_

* * *

They swam towards the agora, their conversation businesslike and focused solely on the present. Schools of fish danced around Atlantis. Harry and Alexio watched the darting silvery forms and leveled their wands towards any who swam too near. But no group approached too closely, they always veered away. Sometimes a school briefly split into two before inevitably rejoining along a path angled safely away from the two wizards.

Alexio and Harry had already encountered a Chinese wizard solemnly standing in Taoist robe and gently waving a hand fan made of crane feathers. He appeared in the distance, standing inside a large room-sized bubble that seemed to follow his will. Spotting them, the wizard pointed his fan towards Harry and Alexio and the bubble approached, perhaps propelled by advantageous currents, before stopping a respectful distance away.

The three considered each other for a tense moment of detente before Harry used his translating bauble (as Alexio called it) to negotiate a truce.

The Chinese Wizard proclaimed no knowledge of a mirror, and sought only the Seven Virtuous Herbs. After a brief exchange, they agreed to keep well apart. With a whisk of his fan, the bubble moved away.

The pair had less luck with a Scandanavian witch with short-trimmed blonde hair, sharp glances and bony angles. After negotiations stretched past a quarter hour Alexio simply launched a bewildering array of hexes at the woman. They didn't get past her shields, but after overcoming his surprise Harry sighed and joined Alexio's attack, pausing only to ask what had led Alexio to act rashly.

"Few can withstand our combined onslaught," Alexio calmly explained as he twisted his wand and two moray eels appeared behind the witch, quickly wriggling through the water and then gnawing at her shields. Alexio did not bother stopping, and launched into another spell.

"Those who made it Atlantis are not randomly selected," Harry snarled.

But if the witch's talents were exceptional, they did not manifest during battle. A minute later she floated limply in the water, an annoyed look on her face. Harry turned to Alexio, who simply shrugged.

Harry murmured "Boring conversation, anyway," as he placed a small branch underneath the woman's arm and snapped it. Then she was gone and the water rushed into to fill the void left by her absence with a sharp thud as they surveyed the situation. They could make out distant forms - human forms - moving throughout Atlantis. Time had become an issue.

Harry pointed at a large building, with its columned foyer reaching out into the water looking for all the world like an inviting mouth opened into a lecherous smile. "There?" he asked and Alexio nodded.

"The _Centro Civil_ ," Alexio said, swimming towards the mouth. "It will be there, if legends speak true."

Alexio felt the wave of pressure as something swam past, and started casting instantly as though his wand were connected straight to his autonomic system, without active control of his higher functions. Harry, slightly slower, shouted _Ventus_ then repeated the spell to his left and right. Before the third spell resolved Alexio had caught on and followed suit.

The simple spell - a child's spell, really - worked profoundly well underwater. The gust of wind instantly impacted the waiting water and cavitated into thousands of small bubbles that swirled and churned and spun chaotically.

The bubbles not only formed a visual shield and provided cover, the currents would flip and spin anyone caught inside. The bubbles also obscured Alexio's vision but not before he saw the flash of a limb where nothing had been before.

Now he had a target.

Alexio fired off two spells, the first a simple _Lagann._ A child's spell meant as a distraction. The second spell was in a language that Harry didn't understand, but the magic made him shudder. Harry felt the force of the spell, an Ecaudorian spell of pain and maiming Alexio had taken from a warlord who fancied himself a dark wizard.

Alexio took no chances against unseen threats, and was smoothly transitioning into a third spell even as Harry shouted at him to stop.

The spells streaked towards through the water and then _slowed to a stop_ in front of the form slowly resolving as bubbles floated up and out of the way.

"You always did have terrible choices in friends, Harry Potter. Except for me, of course," Hermione Granger said, as she grabbed for something unseen and stuffed it into a backpack.

Alexio's jaw set. In the back of his mind, Draco almost dropped character as Hermione Granger gently tugged on the strands of his spell, pulling it apart before looking up at them.

"So. Who's your friend?" Hermione asked as she made a flicking motion with her wand. Alexio's glowing spell throbbed angrily, then streaked away as though shot from a cannon, before disappearing up into the shimmering blue light overhead.

"Alexio, Hermione Granger," Harry said while waving hands between the two of them. "Hermione, just so you know we're in ... I don't know, a fixed point in time. Alexio and I come from different eras. Judging from the looks of you, I'd say you were from my past. Distant past."

Alexio looked at Hermione while she considered this, and Draco peeked out through his eyes. He hadn't seen her in the flesh since they'd been children.

Alexio had arranged to never share her presence during the Grand Convocation, when he'd trapped Harry. Hermione had somehow escaped. Of course she'd escaped, even when Harry hadn't. While he'd never seen her since the days of Hogwarts, the Girl-Who-Revived's celebrity status allowed Alexio to track her for decades without arousing the slightest suspicion. Hermione Granger's fans numbered in the millions, she'd had dozen of stalkers, and political operatives with any sense the world over followed her movements.

It would have seemed suspicious if a man in his position _hadn't_ tracked her. Alexio had plenty of images of adult-Hermione to compare to.

That didn't make it easier. Hermione seemed practically ageless, once she'd reached adulthood. He couldn't tell. _She hadn't seemed surprised to see Harry alive._ On the other hand, she'd seen them first and may have gotten over her shock before deciding to play her prank. _Had she not realized that sneaking up on them would provoke an attack?_ Impossible. Perhaps she worried that it was not actually Harry, some imposter with Polyjuice. Perhaps she worried he'd been _Imperiused_. It was too much. Too many variables to consider. And the "terrible choice of friends," was that barb directed at Alexio? Or Draco?

Alexio suspected that this version of Hermione predated his attack on Harry. He couldn't be sure. If she was younger, from his past, then she'd accumulated power at a rate that made him envious. Then again, she hadn't hid and built her powerbase from scratch. Alexio looked down towards the ocean floor beneath them, considering, as she answered Harry.

"That makes sense. From what you told me Chang's Process of the Timeless trapped Dumbledore. Wherever he is should be timeless, too," Hermione said as she swam down between them. Harry and Alexio swam smoothly, but it seemed like Hermione just willed herself into place with subtle gestures.

The effect was unsettling.

"So, Alexio," she asked, ignoring Harry, "What brings you to Atlantis?"

"I warn you, Hermione Granger," Alexio said, packing the words with as much machismo as he dared, "I am a married man."

Hermione glared at him, but didn't say anything, which was always a fine tactic for revealing little. Alexio laughed. "I apologize. I could not resist. It is just that you sounded like a pickup line."

Harry spoke up, quietly but firmly. "Alexio is here to rescue Dumbledore, like I am."

"Like we are," Hermione said, with a look of determination.

They swam along. As they came to the entrance, a submersible all rigid bubbles placed at impossible angles swam by. A surprised looking woman stared at them through a viewport. The angles distorted her face monstrously, like a funhouse mirror. Alexio suspected that device could handle depths much deeper than the coastal plains they were swimming through. A robotic arm waved hello and scrolling text appeared along the side that seemed to be an introduction in broken english, but there were letters Draco didn't recognize, and accents marks.

Harry shook his head and they ducked into the building.

* * *

 _"When he had so spoken,_

 _I beheld the Angel,_

 _who stretched out his arms,_

 _embracing the flame of fire_

 _& he was consumed _

_and arose as Elijah"_

The three of them stared at the waterfall flowing rapidly through the transom in a thick billowing curtain. Behind the falls, which looked to be merely a foot thick, they could see an archway, and through the archway stood the back of the mirror. Alexio stared at it, looking exactly the same as it had so long ago. It was no more than fifty feet from them, but they were separated from it by the waterfall. Water flowed from just below the ceiling down to the floor and bounced in crashing waves of unnaturally cerulean blues. Vivid hallucinatory blues that bounced once or twice across the marble floor before disappearing. Blues that spoke of beaches and skies.

And if the waterfall noticed that the entire structure was underwater, that it flowed through ocean water instead of air, it gave no indication.

"It's like one of those hypnotic wave machines from my childhood, with two colours of water that never mix but just rock back and forth," Hermione offered.

"We could go through the transom," Harry said, but he sounded dubious. The water flowed out of the transom but there was a gap above the water. A small gap. It seemed so obvious to swim through the gap that it must be a trap, which meant that perhaps it wasn't.

"I doubt Hermione would fit. Myself? Never." Alexio said. He had half a foot over Harry Potter, and at least one hundred pounds. Probably more.

None of them approached the flowing water, or had approached close enough to risk getting splashed by any of the droplets. They'd cast a variety of spells in numerous languages. None even registered the waterfall's existence or affected it in any way. Harry had stopped looking at the waterfall and was now examining the rest of the room.

"If you don't mind my asking," Alexio said.

"We're not supposed to. Temporal Paradoxes and whatnot," Hermione shot back.

"No, not your past. Just ... where did you learn to stop spells? Physically stop them?"

"Hogwarts, of course. The famous David Monroe," she saw by his look that he'd heard of him. Most of the Wizarding world had, in the years following Harry's second defeat of Voldemort.

"David Monroe taught you that?" Alexio said, sounding amazed.

"Well... not exactly. He showed me it could be done," Hermione admitted. "I worked out the details on my own. What did you find, Harry?" she added, because Harry was waving them over. They swam to a side wall, which was covered in runes. Obscure runes, older yet similar to anything he'd studied. Alexio felt like he knew them. He realized he did know them, even though he'd never seen them before.

Runes that definitely had not been there when they first arrived.

"Negation," Harry said, pointing to the rune at Twelve o'clock.

"Identity." Draco said, pointing to the Rune at Three o'clock.

"Perfection," Hermoine said, not bothering to point at the Six o'clock rune.

"Unity," Harry finished. Nine o'clock.

"You never took Runes, Harry," Hermione said reproachfully.

"But I know what they mean," Harry said. "I don't understand it. I've encountered this before, but its definitely Atlantean magic. Not the same as before, but similar. Knowledge, without really understanding."

"I feel it, too. Your translation feels roughly right. Not correct, but how Harry James Potter would describe those runes. Each rune has too many meanings. Its like Ancient Chinese, each word could be a verb or a noun, singular or plural. In any case, its a contradiction. _'Negation is perfect unity'_ doesn't make sense."

Alexio looked at the runes, which to him felt like poetry and not maths.

Hermione started listing off interpretations "' _Reversing the Self creates the universe_ ', no. ' _Opposing viewpoints resolve into answers_ ', true but how does that help? ' _Enemies are ...'_ I can't even figure out how to finish that, ' _perfectly together.'_ That's more a mantra, like _Imagine_ by Jon Lennon. ' _Failure leads to true success.'_ It's like a bad philosophy."

Alexio smiled, as the translation coalesced in his mind.

"We now have a problem," Alexio interrupted. "For beyond this arch rests the mirror that has trapped Albus Dumbledore. Once we swim through it, Who shall he return with?"

"I'm the obvious choice, assuming that I'm correct in the most future timeline," Harry said, automatically. "To send him to my past presents problems."

"Ah, but Albus Dumbledore may be confused by the changes. No, he should go to the newest timeline, and hide himself from us until later," Alexio added. "We can tell him, before we depart, from when we each came."

"Why does he have to go to our time? Perhaps he's secretly Merlin?" Hermione said. "In any case, you seem to be ignoring the obvious problem of how we're going to get past this enchanted waterfall. Not to mention freeing the Headmaster."

"I cannot get past it," Alexio said. "But we? We three can simply swim through it together. After that, well, we each had a plan to free Dumbledore. At least one will work. I have no doubt."

"You got that from the Runes? That doesn't make sense."

"Unlike you, I am not always rational," Alexio admitted. "In my defense, I have the soul of a poet. And I have read this poem elsewhere - in English, no less! I think the Atlanteans, whatever else they were, understood people. They had a nobility, and these runes are a proclamation of it. It is not a warning. They have never threatened us. The real danger here has been others. Those wizards and witches we have seen. The Atlanteans will not hurt us, although they may vex us."

"You could sooner destroy the world with a block of cheese," Harry said. Alexio did not take the meaning, but he could see that Hermione did.

"You aren't serious considering this, Harry?" she asked.

Alexio smiled. "If you like, I can go first. If the falls consume me horribly, then you will know."

"Why are you smiling?" Hermione asked. Even though she was surrounded by a bubble head charm, the words escaped like hisses bubbling away.

"Because I have hope, and hope has been precious rare to me for some time. I prefer my translation to yours. You have captured the words, but not the essence."

"What is the translation?" Harry asked.

"I cannot tell her," Alexio said sheepishly. "There is information she must not have. Not yet."

Hermione glanced between the two of them, then abruptly spun and swam away to the other side of the room. Alexio cast several spells to ensure that he could not be heard, and Harry cast a few of his own, then put down his wand. Hermione could see them leaning together, just for a second, but the spells cancelled all communication, not just sounds. She couldn't make out the large man's lips as he spoke a few words. They had a conversation that lasted several minutes, but she couldn't read anything from it. She couldn't make out any detail at all that gave her a clue, it was a rare and infuriating experience.

Hermione saw them reverse their spells and swam back.

"I'm satisfied," Harry said.

"You can't be! It doesn't make sense. This isn't like you, Harry!"

"This isn't like me from your time, true. But I have privileged information. As Alexio has inferred, I know quite a bit about my past and your future. He explained his rationale for his actions, and gave me a nice translation that seems to be more than coincidence."

"At least tell me the source," Hermione said.

"For anyone else I would consider it, but you're too well read and with your memory ... well, you might make a few inductive leaps and then I've upset the timeline ... Anyway, you know how Time Turners work. All the laws of time travel indicate neither of you die or are seriously injured at the time. That, coupled with what I know about the mirror, makes me think think that worst case? We'll all pop back into where we came from. Have any of you ever heard of anyone questing for Atlantis and suffering physical harm? My research hasn't"

"A Scandanavian witch, Mamseil Arfvidsson, said that during her trip to Atlantis she was attacked by a pair of demons, one monstrous and terrifying the other delicate and cunning ... oh Harry," she folded her arms and glared at the two of them but mainly Harry Potter.

"We weren't that bad," Harry said. "We just stunned her."

"She started it," Alexio chimed in, shrugging his shoulders. "Indirectly, perhaps. No doubt she exaggerated to bolster her reputation and salvage something from the expedition."

"Well, If you two fools are going to go first, I hardly see any reason to wait around."

Alexio held out his hand and led the trio through the doorway, and as the water crashed around him, he smiled. He didn't know what the future held, but he had hope.

Harry smiled at both of them. "After we're finished, I have no idea what I'll do for fun."

Hermione just snorted bubbles, gently blowing her hair from out of her face. "I imagine you'll find something ... annoying," she said, as the swam off together towards the mirror.

* * *

 _"Note. This Angel,_

 _who is now become a Devil,_

 _is my particular friend."_

 _\- William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_

* * *

 **Author's Note** \- This ends my epilogue, which I conceived about a half year ago as a way to continue my story (slightly) and also try to answer lingering questions on Draco's motivations and beliefs. I have beliefs (rather firm ones) about how the story continues, but these beliefs aren't about any specific facts as to "how" things happen, but about how the Trinity view each other.

I did not intend DMPOR as a depressing story, though some took it that way. The William Blake quotes contain much more of my true beliefs than I had imagined possible. (And, just for the record, I wrote my draft - with interspersed quotes - prior to the publication of the Significant Digits epilogue, which I was terrified would also have the rescue of Albus Dumbledore as a plot device. So, I dodged one bullet, but the similarity of running quotes is duplicated. Ah well.)

If you look through _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_ , you will find Draco's translation of the Atlantean Runes and understand why their appearance gave him hope. I tried to work it into the story, but the writing was clumsy, and after several months I cut it out and it works better if the reader fills in the details. But I have been too opaque in the past, hence this note. 

_Update 9/8_ \- It turns out that what I thought was the quote in MoHH is (in fact) not in every copy, and may just be the title of one of the engravings. It is listed in some copies, but not others. Given that, here is the quote in Rot13: _Bccbfvgvba vf gehr sevraqfuvc_


End file.
